I Am Not An Addict
by Es Aitch
Summary: This is about Sherlock's drug habits. How he starts and why he uses them. Focuses on Mycroft and Sherlock. This gets rather dark. Rating is for drug use, suicide attempt and language. Chapters might be sporadic. Disclaimer: Anything recognizable to the general public isn't owned by me, but by the parties to which they belong.
1. Chapter 1

"_This hospital is full of people dying, doctor…. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside? See what good it does them."_

"_Today was supposed to be sunny_," ten-year-old Sherlock Holmes thought as he rode in the black limousine driven behind the white hearse. He looked over and up at his brother. Seventeen-year-old Mycroft sat there and stared ahead stoically. The two brothers had not spoken very many words to each other since their Mother had died four days ago. Sherlock had wanted it to be a nice day for his mother. Her body deserved the respect of being buried on a nice day. Sherlock's right hand twitched, a part of him wanted to grab hold of Mycroft, out of some irrational fear that Mycroft would also die soon and Sherlock would be left all alone in the world.

Mother had been ill for a long time – well a long time as far as Sherlock was concerned. The last few weeks, she refused all hospital treatments. She wanted to be in the comforts of her home and close to her children. Since Sherlock was under eleven, the hospital would not allow him to see Mother in the hospital and she had worried what it would do to her son if he did not get the chance to say good-bye. So, she made arrangements to be cared for at home.

During those last weeks, Sherlock would often be found in her room, playing his violin for her. The Violin, as well as lessons, had been the last gift Mother had purchased for him before she had to be hospitalised. Sherlock had taken to it quickly and because he loved it so much, he practiced often. It only took a few months before he was able to play at least simple renditions of Vivaldi's _Spring_ or Brahms's _Lullaby_. He was also already starting to "compose" his own creations, though members of the household would argue over whether or not to call it "music."

Sometimes, Sherlock would get out of bed late at night. He would go to Mother's bedside, cry silent tears and plead with any being that would listen to let Mother live. Sometimes, if he was feeling especially lost, he would clamber into bed with her and rest his ear over her heart. If she ever woke, or if Mycroft had ever seen him, none of them acknowledged it. In the end, it had all be a pointless effort – she died anyway. Sherlock learned then that crying over the dying did not do them any good. Crying would not save them.

The rain beat down, sometimes in torrents, as they drove towards the family plot.

"Today was supposed to be sunny."

Mycroft was startled out of his stoicism at the sound of his brother's soft murmur. Sherlock had not realized he had spoken aloud until he felt the heavy weight of his brother's gaze upon him. Sherlock looked at Mycroft, huffed and went back to looking out his window in silence. Mycroft was at a loss for what to do. He had helped to care for Sherlock since his birth, but now, when he was supposed to be heading to university, the care of Sherlock had become his sole responsibility. He was not ready for this nor did he want it. He had recently passed his A-Levels in Government, History and Sociology with "As" and had planned to attend Cambridge starting with the Fall Semester. Now, he was not sure what would happen.

Since the family inheritance now fell under Mycroft's control, he would not have to worry about making money. In theory, he could move himself and Sherlock to an apartment near Cambridge and they could each continue with their respective studies. Of course, that would mean uprooting Sherlock. His glance travelled over to his brother. That may not be a bad thing for him. Perhaps he could even convince a school in London that Sherlock should be in more advanced grades, perhaps if he were more challenged, he would not be as disruptive as he had been recently.

Mycroft knew it was not easy for Sherlock. In some subjects, Sherlock simply excelled, often he knew or understood things better than his teachers. However, with other subjects Sherlock struggled. Teachers and the family alike could not figure out if Sherlock simply was not applying himself, or if he truly did not possess a comprehension with them. Mycroft had decided early on it was simply the result of boredom. Sherlock was due to sit for the National Curriculum Assessment again next year and he should get nothing lower than a Level 4 and it wouldn't surprise Mycroft if Sherlock attained a 5 or 6 in some subjects. Mycroft sighed. It was summer and he would not have to worry about Sherlock's education just yet.

When they reached the cemetery and the family plot, the limo stopped and Mycroft and Sherlock got out. Neither had brought an umbrella with them, but the vicar was prepared with a spare. He gave the large black brolly to Mycroft to shelter the brothers. As Mycroft and Sherlock huddled under the umbrella, it was the closest they had been to each other physically since their mother died. They stared at each other for a moment. Mycroft finally wrapped a protective arm around Sherlock's shoulders and Sherlock rested his head against Mycroft's side.

The past few days, Sherlock had spent most of his time at the "Mind Palace." Well, that is what Sherlock had named his tree house, anyway. Mycroft knew why Sherlock had named it that. Two and a half years ago, after studying the concept of method of loci, Mycroft started to help his brother use it. Mycroft had found the method exceedingly helpful in his own studies and hoped it would help his little brother. Sherlock had always seen everything around him, even if he could not yet use his observations to make deductions. Mycroft took it upon himself to teach Sherlock how to begin construction of a mind palace and he hoped it would help Sherlock cope with school and the influx of information he was receiving on a daily basis. It had helped in that Sherlock was slowly learning ways to organize his thoughts.

When they started to build the tree house as a summer project two years ago, Sherlock had talked about how he wanted it to look like part of his mind palace. Mycroft said that a simple tree house was not big enough to use as a mind palace because Sherlock might one day run out of room if he only used a tree house. Sherlock pouted and said he would call it his Mind Palace anyway. In a way, it was a physical representation of the Mind Palace Sherlock was creating in his head. Like the one in Sherlock's head, there would be ways to extend the tree house, if they ever wanted to.

Currently, there was one floor, but it was large. It was tall enough that a man six feet tall could stand up straight in it. When Mycroft was helping Sherlock to design and build it, Sherlock wanted to make sure that it would be big enough for Mycroft to still come and visit him. Secretly, Sherlock wanted it to be big enough so he could live in when he grew up. Mycroft had chuckled at the idea, but appeased his brother. Sherlock had been having a rough time of it at school and Mycroft decided Sherlock needed at least one place where he felt safe. Mycroft only went there when he was invited. He considered it "Sherlock's space" and respected it religiously.

As Mycroft thought about it, he wondered if he could really pull Sherlock away from that sense of safety and move him to London. Still, he was not sure he had a choice. If they moved, perhaps they could still return here on the weekends, which might be the best solution for both of them. Besides, they had hired Imogen Jones only three months ago and she was amazing with all of them, not only did she seem to have a way with Sherlock, but the way she had cared for Mummy and still managed to find time to cook and clean, as well as the occasional time to herself was impressive. Mycroft could let the rest of the staff go and retain Imogen. He would have to cut her salary, since she would not be doing as much work, but she would have room and board provided, so it seemed like a good deal to him.

"I am so sorry for your loss," the vicar addressed Mycroft and offered his hand.

Mycroft lamely shook the hand. He had missed the service entirely lost in his musings. Mycroft went to return the umbrella, but the priest told him to keep it, that Mycroft needed it more than he did. Mycroft nodded his thanks and Sherlock tugged gently on Mycroft's sleeve, "Can we go now?"

Mycroft sighed. He had missed the service and in a sense, saying his last goodbyes to Mummy. Sherlock had always been the type to deal with his emotions in his own way and he usually did it outside the prying eyes of others. Mycroft nodded and slid his hand from Sherlock's shoulder into his hand. It was as much to offer comfort, as it was to take it. Sherlock did not protest and accepted Mycroft's hand. They said nothing to the few other family members and friends who had come to pay Mummy their respects. Mycroft acknowledged their presence with a small nod of his head, but he figured they would understand if he did not want to linger.


	2. Chapter 2

"_My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher… Initially he wanted to be a pirate."_

It was three weeks after Mother's burial that Sherlock had come to Mycroft asking him to purchase some wood and building supplies. When Mycroft asked what it was for, Sherlock told him it was for a pirate ship. Sherlock was insistent on building it himself. Mycroft was still debating about what to do come Fall Term, but ordered the requested items for Sherlock. When they arrived, Mycroft didn't see Sherlock for nearly three weeks, though Imogen said that Sherlock would turn up to eat at least once a day.

For his part, Sherlock had not told the whole truth. He wasn't building a pirate ship; he was building an addition to the Mind Palace. When his supplies arrived, he took charge and directed that they be taken down to the tree house – no sense in him carrying them when the deliverymen could. In the preceding weeks, Sherlock had drawn blueprints of the addition to the tree house. These plans included improvements to the level Mycroft had helped him to build two years ago.

All of Sherlock's focus and energy went into the Mind Palace at that point. Mycroft had taught him a great deal when they had built the first part and Sherlock used that knowledge as he expanded the second. It would become his inner sanctuary. It took him weeks, but he didn't mind taking his time. He wanted it to be perfect.

He built the addition first and then took out a few planks from the first floor to create a false wall. Behind the false wall, was a ramp that led to the next level. This level only had one window in it. It was a small portal window. But, with the pull of a rope, the entire roof would lift up and with another pull it would fall over the side of the house, creating a ladder to get down. The ladder stopped about three feet off the ground, so the person had to jump to get down. This also made it difficult to get into the house from that direction.

The changes to the first floor included adding electricity, which he also added to the second floor. The final changed was to hide the rope ladder that was used to get in and out of the house. Sherlock created a pulley system and hid the lever in one of the knots of the tree. This system would allow for the ladder to be hidden whenever Sherlock wanted it to, but he would know which knot to pull on to release the lever. It was a safety mechanism. Sherlock took two strings of Christmas Fairy Lights, and used one on each floor. He found a large carpet remnant, beanbags and some trunks, which he added to the second floor. It was feeling more and more like home. He used some liquid tar, that he painted on the outside and along the seems of the inside of the entire tree house, making it water proof and finally, he found some light colour paint to paint the inside.

Sherlock's tree house was his home. And it had only taken a week. He made a sign with the words "Mind Palace" and hung it on the trunk of the tree, so everyone would know this was his home. In fact, he decided he wanted to move there, so he did. He started to gather things to put in the trunks. Like his actual mind palace, each trunk held it's own category of items. Inside one he put a chemistry set with functional microscope – now Mycroft could not complain about his experiments. Another held a collection of science and philosophy books. Inside a third was a collection of fantasy books including _Treasure Island_ and _Fahrenheit 451_.

The inner sanctuary did not have the height of the lower room, though it still had 5 feet of clearance - more than enough space to sit in one of the bean bags, and not worry about hitting your head - impressive for a space like this. Sherlock set up this space to function more like a lounge, complete with carpeting, beanbags, blankets and pillows. There was another collection of trunks in the room. These held those things that were more sentimental to Sherlock. One trunk was dedicated to Mother. It contained a framed picture of Sherlock and Mother, one of her sweaters, a bottle of her perfume, a cassette tape of her singing lullabies from when he was a baby and some other bits and bobs he was able to rescue from the house.

Sherlock decided that Mycroft would hate this space and decided to never invite him to the Mind Palace ever again. He figured Mycroft would tease him and tell him he's far too sentimental. He did not really care. This was his place and he could be sentimental if he wanted. He was starting to think it would be the only place he would be sentimental ever again. Sherlock spent the next two weeks at the Mind Palace, leaving only when he needed to replenish his supplies. He even slept there. It was summer, so he would open the roof and gaze at the stars for long hours.

The times when Sherlock came to the house, Imogen would be there, ready to take care of him. She started to anticipate his needs so well that sometimes she had a small basket packed for him to take so he did not even have to talk to anyone. Sherlock never quite said "Thank you," but he would offer a faint smile and give a nod of his head, before taking off again. Sherlock spent some time reading, but most of the time, he just curled in the inner sanctuary and just stared at the picture of Mother, while clinging desperately to her sweater. Sometimes, he would even go so far as to let himself cry, but this only ended with him feeling worse than when he started. It seemed there were not enough tears for him to express the pain left behind by the absence of Mother. Besides, crying tended to give him nasty headaches.

This was how the summer passed for Sherlock. Mycroft was too busy and distracted to offer any kind of help to Sherlock. He was of the mind that Sherlock would come around on his own as he always did. Besides, he had plenty of other things to worry about: how to let the staff go, transferring the inheritance into his and Sherlock's names, settling things so he could attend Cambridge and locating a school for Sherlock. The summer passed all too quickly for Mycroft.

After much research, school visits and meetings with teachers as well as headmasters, Mycroft finally settled on a school for Sherlock. The Leys School was a boarding school near Cambridge University that Sherlock could attend. The school was quite used to having the children of Cambridge professors, so they were willing to work with Mycroft's school schedule. Cambridge University was also willing to work with Mycroft, understanding that Sherlock would sometimes need to stay with his brother. Mycroft was able to secure a single room because of this, which suited him just fine. Strictly speaking, Sherlock was a few months too young to be admitted to Leys, but with some diplomatic discussions as well as Sherlock's scores on the tests he was given, they waved the age requirement.

Having secured their future education, Mycroft was able to relax somewhat during the month of August. He had slowly been letting the staff go, but he always made sure to aid them with finding other employment. Imogen agreed to stay and perform the work that was requested. She would also serve as an alternate contact for Sherlock, should Mycroft be unable to attend school functions. She was also a contact for Mycroft, since Sherlock was too young to serve such a role. Things were settling into place. Sherlock was still not on speaking terms with his brother and the silence grew when Mycroft spoke about boarding school.

Mycroft tried to console his brother, talking about the music program that Leys offered and that Sherlock would be able to continue with his violin lessons there. To Mycroft's knowledge, Sherlock had not touched the violin since Mummy had died and that made him sad, because Sherlock was well on his way to becoming a fine violinist. Sherlock would play sometimes – late at night when he was in the Sanctuary of the Mind Palace. He would prop up the picture of Mother and play the violin for her.


	3. Chapter 3

**_A/N and Disclaimer: I am not from the UK, so my understanding of the school system there is rather limited. I have done a bit of research, but that is not the same, I know. The names of the schools/houses are real as of today, I do not know if they existed back in the mid-late 80s or not. Disclaimer: I am not associated with any of the schools used here. Any events mentioned as well as how faculty, staff, etc. address those events are the creation of my imagination._**

* * *

"_You were thinking. It's annoying."_

Sherlock was the first to start school – a full month before Mycroft would have to start, but that gave Mycroft time to do his own preparations "Sherlock Free." It was too bad, in the end. Sherlock had just started to again talk to him and they would take afternoon walks and perform deductions on people they saw around town. Mycroft rather enjoyed these times and Sherlock seemed to be coming back to himself. It made Mycroft smile to know that Sherlock did not resent him.

Then came the day that Mycroft had to take Sherlock to Leys. Sherlock was surprisingly docile. Mycroft drove them and Imogen rode in the back. Although she had not been with them long, she and Sherlock had already forged a strong relationship since Mummy had died. Mycroft did not think it was his place to interfere. Sherlock was still young and needed a strong female influence. Besides, it seemed that when Sherlock would not talk to Mycroft, he would talk to Imogen. It would be a way for Mycroft to be able to keep an eye on Sherlock.

They pulled up to Moulton House, where Sherlock would be staying and for the first time, Sherlock looked… scared. He swallowed hard as he got out of the car. Imogen got out to stand next to Sherlock and Mycroft went to the boot to gather Sherlock's belongings. They slowly made their way to Sherlock's room, first Sherlock with Imogen to guide him and Mycroft behind with Sherlock's belongings.

Once Mycroft deposited Sherlock's things on his bed, he looked at the boy. Then he looked at Imogen and nodded – it was time. Imogen bent down and pretended to straighten Sherlock's clothes and picking at imaginary lint, just to have a reason to touch the boy. She smiled as she spoke, "You'll do well here, Sherlock. And if you need something, there are plenty of people around to help you, but if you need anything, you know you can call me."

Sherlock nodded and Imogen hugged him and he responded in kind. Mycroft gave a nod to her and she left the room, the brothers needed their time in private. Mycroft bent to Sherlock's level, "I know this may seem difficult, but I'll be just down the road at Cambridge. We both need our education, Sherlock. And we only have each other to take care of ourselves."

Mycroft's tone was all business, but Sherlock could sense the underlying tension and worry that Mycroft refused to show. Something broke in Sherlock at that moment and he surged forward and wrapped his arms around Mycroft, "B-but it'll be a whole month before you're here."

Mycroft knew it might be the last time he gets a chance to hug his brother for a while, "I'm just a phone call away, Sherlock. And the house-staff are aware of our circumstances…."

"You _told_ them! How could you? Now they'll all treat me like I'm some sort of orphan."

"Sherlock," Mycroft sighed, "In the strictest definition _we_ are orphans. But, that doesn't mean we're alone. I'll look out for you."

Sherlock did not look convinced; he tried to pull out of his brother's embrace. Mycroft was not ready to let him go yet and so pulled him closer. He whispered in Sherlock's ear, "Don't worry. You're smart and before long you'll be dazzling them and they will never know the difference. I only told them so you will get some leniency if you decide to call me or Imogen, all right?"

Sherlock showed his acceptance by hugging Mycroft a little tighter. He whispered, "What's going to happen to me?"

Mycroft sighed, "I explained all this already."

Sherlock's eyes pleaded with him. Mycroft could not decide if this was a delay tactic or if Sherlock genuinely wanted to know, but he gave in. Mycroft looked around to make sure no one would over hear, "They are going to give you several tests in these first few weeks. Then, they will put you into proper subject levels based on how you do on those tests."

At Sherlock's look of concern, Mycroft tried to ease it away, "They have been informed to give you written, oral and hands-on tests. If they don't, then I want you to call me." Mycroft smiled at his brother wistfully, "The last thing any of us wants or needs is to see you bored."

At that, Sherlock smiled then pulled Mycroft back into a hug, "Thanks, Mycroft, you're the best older brother."

Mycroft's heart soared at those words. For the first time since Mummy took ill, he had the feeling that everything was going to be just fine. Mycroft hugged his brother firmly in return then waved him off with a somewhat watery smile of pride. He and Imogen returned to the mansion and started to get the house ready to be nearly empty until the Christmas breaks. Mycroft's and Sherlock's mid-term breaks did not overlap and although he was allowed to stay at Cambridge, Sherlock would have to leave Leys. Mycroft was going to have a private room at Cambridge and he had already received permission for Sherlock to stay with him during Leys' breaks. Christmas was another matter and the Holmes boys would return to the mansion at that time.

Before Mycroft knew it, the first month had passed and he was moving to Cambridge. Based on reports he was receiving from Leys, Sherlock seemed to be adjusting fairly well. At least they were not calling him every night with a different issue. Mostly it was updates on how Sherlock's testing was progressing and helping him to settle into a routine. Mycroft took to Cambridge like a duck to water. It was everything he could have looked for in a university and he felt it would prepare him for his future. All seemed to progress well and suddenly it was time for the Christmas Holidays. Mycroft had five blessed days at home before he had to go to Leys to pick up Sherlock. He and Imogen made the most of the time by getting the house cleaned and made preparations for Christmas decorations. Mycroft was also able to get his Christmas shopping completed.


	4. Chapter 4

_"You can imagine the Christmas dinners."_

Mycroft had decided the best way to get through this Christmas, would be to act as if nothing had changed. In the past, Mummy had always held parties both before and after Christmas and Mycroft had decided this year would not be any different. But Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing Day were special. They had always been family only. Mycroft and Imogen thought it would be best for Sherlock if they continued with the family traditions for those three days.

They started on Christmas Eve with the "Family Service" at the local church. This service was not as formal as the candlelight service (or midnight), but Mycroft felt that Sherlock was at that age when the midnight service might be too late for him. Still, this service was held in the mid-evening and so would get them home by 21:00, allowing Sherlock to keep close to the school sleep schedule. Mycroft felt that it was important to have some structure for Sherlock. To Mycroft's amazement, Sherlock did not fight him on attending the service, nor on going to bed that night.

It was a fairly mild winter that year and what Mycroft did not know was that Sherlock would sneak out of his bedroom window, down the wooden vine lattice and off to the Mind Palace. Sherlock would sleep there, in his Inner Sanctuary, where he felt the safest and closest to Mother. Sherlock had not believed in Father Christmas since he was about six years old. It was not that he ever saw anyone putting the presents out, but he could tell from the wrapping paper and footprints left in the carpet that it was Mother who always set them out. Sherlock did not understand why Mycroft was making such a fuss about this Christmas. Why not treat it as any other day?

Sherlock sighed and pulled out his violin, which he started to play. His first term at Leys, he had become involved in the orchestra. While he liked talking to others who were also interested in violin, he hated the restrictiveness of having to play with others. The only reason why he tolerated it was because the only way to take private lessons and be allowed access to the practice rooms was to participate in the orchestra. The time with his personal violin instructor made it worth the discomfort of having to play with others. Dr. Bennett ("Please Sherlock, call me William.") was patient with Sherlock, he would even willingly listen to Sherlock's compositions and was teaching him some basic principles of composing.

Sherlock smiled softly as he started to work on one of these songs. Dr. "Call Me William" Bennett had taught Sherlock that he did not have to compose an entire song at one time. He was showing Sherlock how to write the notes so that Sherlock could set the song aside and come back to it again later. They would talk sometimes, maybe it was something about their mutual love for the violin, but Sherlock felt he could trust him. Sometimes, Sherlock would even share songs he was writing for Mother.

Sherlock slept in the Mind Palace. With the blankets, pillows and mild winter, he was not overly cold. He had a windup clock and set the alarm, so he could sneak back into his room before anyone else woke up. When it was time, he put his violin away and got ready to return to his room. He would have to bring his violin back with him. Imogen had mentioned she wanted to hear him play some Christmas melodies. He had a strap in one of the trunks. He pulled it out and tied it around the violin case, then looped it over his shoulders, so that his hands would be free, but the violin was secure on his back. Once he was packed, he made his way back.

It had been such a mild winter that the recent snows had melted. The ground was still frozen hard, though. It was 4:45 in the morning and Sherlock had to be in his room by 5:00 or Mycroft might realize what he's been up to. Sherlock came back to the lattice that led to his bedroom. He checked the strap attached to his violin to make sure it was secure and started to make his way up. Although Sherlock's room was only on the second floor, the size of the house made the distance up closer to three floors of a standard house.

Sherlock was nearly to his window when he heard a cranking sound. He went to move his left foot to the next rung when the piece his right foot was on gave way. The sudden weight against the wood that his fingers were clasped to also gave way. Suddenly, Sherlock was falling through the air. It all happened so fast that he hardly had time to turn his body. He was able to turn just enough that he was feet first, instead of his back. Hi right foot came into contact with the ground first, thus absorbing all the inertia. There was a sickening cracking sound followed by the rest of his body coming into contact with the ground.

Sherlock gasped and reached for his violin case. One clasp looked broken and one hinge was badly bent, but other than that it looked okay. He sighed with relief and then went to stand up, only to have extreme pain force him to lie down again. He did not know what to do. He would not cry. Imogen's room was on the other side of this level and Mycroft was in his room. Sherlock doubted that either would hear him if he cried out, but all the doors were locked and there was no way for him to get in. He lay there for a few minutes, trying to mentally get the pain to a level he could tolerate. He decided he had no choice and slowly started to drag himself towards the kitchen door. His only hope was that Imogen would be up early and would let him in.

Sherlock could not control the tears that had started to stream down his cheeks in the twenty pain-filled minutes it took for him to reach the kitchen door. He was lucky. As he was about to try to pound on the door, Imogen opened it. She was tossing out some stale breadcrumbs that were not suitable for human consumption, but would serve the birds just fine. She happened to glance down, but thought that Sherlock was playing a trick. "Sherlock, get upstairs before you catch your death of cold."

"It's not the cold I'm worried about," Sherlock's voice wavered. Imogen turned to look at him; Sherlock's voice rarely wavered unless something was positively wrong. She took in how his right leg was at an odd angle and the tears running down his cheeks. She gasped, "Oh, my God!"

Imogen was afraid to touch him since she did not want to hurt him. She grabbed an afghan that she always kept in the kitchen and wrapped it over him. "Stay put. Don't move! I'm going to get your brother."

Before Sherlock could offer any protest, she was gone. For the first time since he fell, Sherlock was afraid. He could not say he fell out of the tree house, because it was too far away. Suddenly, Sherlock became hyperaware of everything around him. It was more than just his broken leg causing him pain. Breathing in and out felt like knives going down his throat and into his lungs, the weight of the blanket felt like it was crushing him. The sound of the furnace running was as loud as an avalanche and the small kitchen work light was blinding.


	5. Chapter 5

_"I'll be mother… And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell."_

Sherlock was not sure what happened. He had very vague memories of Mycroft coming to his side, being moved to a couch, the doctor coming and a car-ride to hospital. Then, he remembered a needle prick and everything going quiet and still. He could breath again and nothing hurt. Now, he heard a voice. It was calling to him, "Sherlock."

He wanted to sleep just a little more, but the voice grew insistent, "Sherlock!"

Sherlock debated replying, but he knew his brother would not leave him alone if he ignored him. Finally, he gave a subtle, "Ngh. Go'way. Tired."

Mycroft chuckled softly, "I bet you are, but you need to wake up now, Sherlock."

Sherlock tried to open his eyes. It was like trying to lift weights with just his eyelids. When he finally did open them, he found himself in… not his bedroom. He looked around and realized he was in a hospital. He gasped in shock. There was an IV in his arm and his leg was elevated in a harness. His voice was raw and scratchy, but he was able to say, "Am I going to die?"

Mycroft was surprised by Sherlock's question; he came to sit gingerly on the side of the bed. He ran his hand gently through Sherlock's dark locks. Mycroft kept his tone soft, "What makes you ask that?"

The fear in Sherlock's did not abate, "Mother was in the hospital and then she died."

Mycroft understood that Sherlock should know better, but he chalked the confusion up to the morphine they had given Sherlock for the pain and then the sedative they had given him during surgery. So, he simply explained to Sherlock what happened, "You broke your leg, Sherlock. They had to perform surgery to fix it. You will only be here a couple days to get the healing process underway."

Sherlock seemed to relax at that, but then his face screwed up, "I feel funny."

"That's from the medicine. Don't worry you'll feel normal soon."

Sherlock nodded his reply and shifted slightly in the bed to get more comfortable. Mycroft took a sigh of relief and then moved back to the chair. He knew Sherlock would go back to sleep. He whispered, "Merry Christmas, dear bother."

It was two more days before Sherlock was deemed well enough to go home. Of course, that did not mean he was better by any stretch. He would be in a full-leg cast for at least six weeks and then they would have to remove the pins. They would use step-down casts after that for another six to ten weeks. It was a matter of how quickly and well Sherlock healed. Imogen helped Mycroft to get Sherlock settled onto a couch in the sitting room. Sherlock looked at the tree and all the presents. Then he looked at Mycroft, "I… didn't miss Christmas?"

Mycroft smiled, "You did, but we waited to open gifts until you could be with us. Let me go help Imogen with tea and biscuits, then we'll all open our gifts, okay?"

Mycroft thought Sherlock might have been too tired for the activities, but he nodded his head and sat there staring at tree. About ten minutes later, Mycroft and Imogen returned with tea, a small tray of sandwiches and another small tray of biscuits. After they had eaten, Mycroft stood, "I'll be Santa."

Once the gifts had been opened, Sherlock looked tired. Imogen left to clean up the kitchen and Mycroft stayed behind to help Sherlock get comfortable for a nap. Sherlock had a question, but was refusing to ask, until Mycroft prompted him. He looked at his older brother, "That stuff they gave me before I got to hospital, what was it?"

Mycroft was always one to answer Sherlock's questions, "They actually gave it to you several times, it's called morphine."

Sherlock nodded, "I liked it. It made everything stop hurting."

Mycroft chuckled at that, "Well, that's what it does. Of course, now that you're home, you can't have that one. You will be taking codeine for a few more days then down to paracetamol or ibuprofen. Once you're back at school, they will only allow paracetamol. But that's a couple weeks away, yet. Who knows, by then, you might not need any medication at all."

Sherlock nodded and Mycroft could tell he was about to drift to sleep. He left him on the couch and went off to do his own thing. Sherlock was not sleeping, though. He was going through his mind palace. He decided that he needed a room for medical information. So, he created a new wing and envisioned a hospital room with files and cupboards and all sorts of places to store information. In there, he put all the information that Mycroft had just given him. Then, some of the information about Mother's illness he moved from her room to the hospital room. That made him feel calmer, he did not like remember her as someone who was sick. This way he could keep all the information separate, but could remember it when needed.

He was not sure what to do with the information he had from right after he broke his leg. He did not even have a word for it, just the vague memories of the pain and everything hurting. He decided that it was part of what happened when someone broke their leg, so he put it in the hospital room along with the supplies for making a cast.

As he started to wander around other areas of the mind palace, he realized that Mycroft had been correct, his little tree house would not have been big enough to hold all the information that he knew would one day fill all these places. But then, he was also correct, he could add or remove entire rooms with a simple thought that they should or should not exist. He slowly made his way out of the mind palace and allowed himself to drift into a deep sleep.

* * *

Christmas holidays were quickly drawing to a close. Sherlock had learned to manage on crutches and was doing quite well. It would only be a month until Sherlock was taken back to hospital to have the pins removed. He was displeased with that. That was the first mid-term break and he would be spending it in hospital. Mycroft would not even be able to stay with him this time, since he had his own studies to continue at Cambridge. Still, Imogen would be there, so he would not be alone at least.

It was two days before he was supposed to return to Leys when it happened. Sherlock was sitting in the library and Imogen came in to check on him. He looked her up and down and rather than commenting on what he saw, he made a statement about his conclusions, "You're going to leave us."

Imogen was taken aback, "Sherlock what are you going on about?"

Sherlock pointed to her hand, "There's indents on your hand from where you've been winding the telephone cord around your fingers, but not tightly as if in stress. It was loosely wound, in thought or even pleasure. I'd lean towards pleasure, going by the smile on your face. You never smile like that when you see Mycroft or me. And yet, it's a smile that I've seen Mother use sometimes, when she was talking to a man she liked. So, you've been talking on the phone with someone you like. You like women more than men. You've stayed here in the hopes that you would not be tempted by what you family considers your 'vile nature.' So it was a woman you were talking to. A woman you would like to spend more time with, but you feel devoted to us since Mother's death. But, you can't fight against nature and you're too sentimental for your own good. Conclusion, you will leave us to pursue this love interest of yours." He gave her a pointed look, "It won't last. Nothing like that ever does."

Imogen did not know if she should be offended or impressed. She had heard Mycroft talk like this and Sherlock would on occasion, but not to this level. And Sherlock seemed detached, like nothing mattered, but he could not stop himself from sharing the knowledge he had. She sighed and settled for offering a reply, "Sherlock, even if I do want to spend time with…. Friends – it doesn't mean that I care for you and Mycroft any less. I can do both, especially with the two of you at school most of the year."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You're more than just friends."

"As long as I do my job well, it is none of your concern what I do in my personal life."

Sherlock just stared at her; he had no way to argue against that. It was the truth and nothing he said could change that. But he had to get the last word, "Just ensure that you continue to perform your duties to the level you have been."

Imogen nodded, made sure he was comfortable and left the room. Something had happened to Sherlock and she was not sure what it was. Oh, he had always seen more than he let on, but this was the first time he had used it against her. Also, there was his tone. He simply laid out the facts, but there was no emotion or concern there. She remembered Mycroft had been similar, but he learned to tailor his observations to not be as offensive. Mycroft would usually keep his observations to himself, unless he needed them to gain favour or to threaten others. But Sherlock…. Was different.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: In addition to how Sherlock discovered drugs, I wanted to give a reason behind Sherlock's inability to turn off his deductions. Hopefully this worked.**_

* * *

_"Yes, I've been hearing about your concern."_

Mycroft did not stay to help Sherlock settle in upon dropping him off at Leys this time. Mycroft figured all the staff would help him, since they had been alerted to his situation. The problem was, Imogen had told him about Sherlock's deductions. More importantly, about how detached he had become since he offered them. Mycroft could only hope that it had been born out of boredom, because if this was somehow a new personality Sherlock was developing, there were going to be problems.

Sherlock slowly made his way to his room in the house. He winced as he moved through the house. Not because of the pain in his leg, but because of the flow of information. Ever since he fell, he could not turn it off. It used to be that he could shift it to the background. It would take on the quality of "white noise." Ever since he woke up in hospital though, it was a constant stream of information. It took effort for him to ignore it, but ignoring it did not make it go away. It just turned the flow to a dull roar.

Sherlock got to his room, which he shared with three other students. He looked around, he was the first of them to return, he could tell because he had been the last to leave and practically nothing had changed. The few nuances he noted were due to the cleaning crew coming through to vacuum and dust. He sighed and sat down heavily upon his bed. He would unpack in a few minutes.

Sherlock looked around the room again and started to realize things about his roommates. He had not cared to pay anyone any attention during the first term; he was too busy with his tests, getting settled into his new classes and getting caught up, since the testing had delayed his attendance by a week. Now, with no one around and no homework to do, he was bored.

Kenny was the boy who slept opposite to him. Obviously did not come from a wealthy family, but he made it look like he did. He had all the right toys, but some of them were obviously a year old or had a previous owner. David, who was the oldest boy in the room, hid dirty magazines under his bed. He was clearly gay, now that Sherlock thought about his personal grooming habits and the brand of pants he wore. Therefore the hidden magazines would be of naked men, rather than women. Edward, who slept across from David was probably what Leys would tout as their typical student: he was involved in sports, achieved high marks in his classes and everyone liked him. Well, everyone except his parents. While giving Edward everything he asked for, his father was violent towards him. He would keep up the appearances, though since his father was quite well known in Norwich.

Sherlock got up and started to wander the halls on his crutches. He hoped if he stayed ahead of the crowds, then the flow of information would be easier to deal with.

* * *

Sherlock was wrong. The number of students and sheer level of excitement was overwhelming. Sherlock tried to make it easier by just not participating. He had already earned a reputation for being the strong silent type in the house, so it was not that hard. Still, by the time supper was finished, he just wanted to go to bed. He sought out Matron McGill. It was a rather tedious process, with him being on crutches, but he was not sure he could get to sleep without medication. That is when it started to happen again: he became hypersensitive to everything around him. The lights were too bright, the noises too loud and the amount of information flowing towards him was too much.

Sherlock slumped against the wall too tired to carry on. Melissa was one of the girls in his literature class. Literature was one of the subjects he struggled with, but mostly it because the things they read did not interest him. She came to his side, "Hey, are you okay?"

"Clearly, I'm not!"

"Want me to get the matron for you?"

Sherlock was surprised at her offer, especially with the way he snapped at her. He nodded his head, "Please."

Melissa smiled at his polite word, "Okay, there's a bench just there, why don't you sit down and I'll be right back."

She stayed with Sherlock until he was settled. Before she took off running he called to her, "Melissa? Thanks… and sorry for snapping."

She nodded and took of to get the matron. Melissa returned with Matron McGill a few minutes later. The matron looked over Sherlock and nodded to herself, "I have just what you need. Do you want me to carry you or can you make it?"

Sherlock did not want to appear any weaker to Melissa than he already did, so he said he could do it. The matron thanked Melissa for her help and then turned her focus back to Sherlock. It was rare that a child would be given morphine, but the nurses and his brother had discussed his treatment plan and it was a small dose that hopefully would let him sleep. They had anticipated he might need it his first day back from over excitement. Addiction was always a concern, but as long as he was given his other medications first and the morphine was just to supplement his pain therapy, they all agreed it would be okay.

Matron McGill had given Sherlock his ibuprofen dose just as dinner was starting, but that was nearly two hours ago and it clearly was not helping him. Once they entered the small sick room, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. Matron passed that off as relief that Sherlock could sit down. "Why don't you lay down for a bit, I'll get you some more medication." He nodded in reply and tried to rest a bit. She returned and gave him a pill and some water.

Sherlock sat up enough to take both, then lay back down and waited for it to start to work. After a few moments he spoke, "Matron? C-can I sleep here tonight?"

She smiled and lightly tussled his hair, "That's what this room is for."

Her smile brightened as Sherlock seemed to sink further into the bed. He was relaxing more. She knew the medication would not work that quickly, so she wondered what had set the young boy off.

The rest of the term passed in much the same way. Sherlock was only polite to the Matron or to people who were helping him. He would offer his deductions at any time – this had resulted in a split lip and black eye one day. Crutches just made him an easier target. He was in senior school Chemistry, which was the only time he felt like he was among his peers. Though at first they thought he was just a show off, they soon learned that this was just a subject he naturally excelled in. But sleeping at night and time spent in the house were difficult at best. Every few days, Sherlock would go to the Matron and she would give him a dose of morphine and let him sleep in the sick room.

* * *

At mid-term break, it was time for Sherlock to have the pins removed. Imogen came to pick him up from Leys on Friday and took him back to hospital. She stayed with him all night and waited the next day for the surgery to be completed. While Sherlock was moved to recovery, the doctor met with Imogen, "The surgery went well and he shouldn't have any complications once the bones heal from the removal of the pins. We have recast his leg, but if he decides he wants to walk on it, he can. In fact, after a week of rest, we recommend it. The doctors at Leys will keep an eye on him and they can remove the cast if they decide he has healed enough. But, to make things easier on everyone, I recommend waiting until the Spring Break, that way he can get some physio in before returning to school."

Imogen nodded her thanks and the doctor left. She used one of the courtesy phones and called Mycroft to give him the update. He thanked her, but not did ask any questions. Imogen would have said Mycroft sounded distracted. Once the call was completed, she went to check on Sherlock. She smiled when he woke up, but her expression fell when his did, "He didn't come. He said he might after all."

Sherlock had taken that comment to mean Mycroft would come. Imogen swallowed, "I just called him, he's glad everything went well and can't wait to see you at break."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "He hardly said two words to you."

He looked down at his leg, "How long do I have to wear this one."

Imogen sighed; Sherlock was not the cute little boy who was improving his tree house last summer. "It depends on how fast you heal. But this one is special. After a week of resting it, if you feel strong enough, you can walk on it."

That brought a small smile to Sherlock's features. The rest of the week passed quietly. Too quietly, if you asked Imogen. Sherlock had gone rather silent, hardly saying two words. At the end of the week, she helped Sherlock get back to school.


	7. Chapter 7

"_It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft."_

The next four years passed by quickly for the Holmes boys. During that time, Mycroft realized the influential effect he had on others. This came in great aid not only for himself, but also on Sherlock's behalf. This stood in stark contrast to the direct way Mycroft was able to deal with his brother. During the summers, he would have long talks with Sherlock about how Sherlock spoke to others. Sherlock would roll his eyes and ignore his brother. Then Mycroft would drop the subject entirely. It got to the point that the only time Sherlock spoke with either Mycroft or Imogen was when he was in trouble or needed something.

Still, Sherlock and Mycroft were making their own way in the world. Mycroft had graduated from Cambridge and moved to London. Through various internships, he had already secured a place for himself as an aid within the British Parliament. He already knew he would hate it, but he also knew it would give him the knowledge and contacts he needed to forge the job of his dreams. It was a small short-term price to pay and the results, he knew, would be enormous.

During this time, Sherlock started to read the papers regularly. Mostly, he would read the sensational stories. In 1989, he came across a story of a young boy who died in a swimming pool – Carl Powers. He read the article several times and something bothered him – as if something was missing, but he could not put his finger on it. The next day, when he was getting ready for physical education, he was putting his clothes in his locker. That's when he realized what was wrong. The shoes! Where were the shoes? Sherlock skipped class that day and went back to his room to read the article again. There was no sign of the boy's shoes. He went to the local police and tried to tell them what he had discovered. No one would talk to him. Everyone thought he was just some kid trying to outsmart the police. That day, Sherlock decided he would become the smartest person he could. From now on, people would take him seriously. Sherlock started to apply himself to his coursework in a way he had not done before. This pleased Mycroft to no end. He thought Sherlock had finally outgrown whatever attitude problems had formed since Sherlock had broken his leg.

During this time, Sherlock's psychosomatic manifestations of hypersensitivity had allowed Mycroft to secure a private room for him. That meant Sherlock was moved to a house with older children, but since he was mature for his age, it worked out well enough. Having his own room gave him a place to hide when things got rough for him. The term psychosomatic was applied because, as far as any doctors – medical or mental – were concerned, there was no cause for it. Since it occurred at seemingly random times, all they could do was name it. Through that experience, Sherlock learned hate and distrust all doctors. He was not making up his extreme pain and he could not understand why they did not want to help him.

Over the course of those years, doctors had tried various medications to help him. None of the psychiatric drugs seemed to help, which only added to their diagnosis that it was psychosomatic. The fact that he railed against using opiates should have clued the doctors that he was not faking his problems. No one listened – again! When he had broken his leg, he had loved the quiet the morphine gave him. Now, he was fifteen and about to start his last two years of studies. The way the opiates slowed him down were less than desirable.

He had already passed his A-Levels in Chemistry and Maths, but since he was operating at expected grade level in literature and philosophy they would not test him out of the rest of his educational course work. Since he had already passed in Chemistry and Maths, he was taking classes in those subjects at Cambridge while finishing his other coursework. He hated the mundane aspects of his compulsory education. He knew what he was good at and he did not understand why he had to learn everything else. He could not wait until he was finished with school and then he could do what he wanted.

Sherlock was excited to be going to Cambridge for some of his classes. For at least a few hours each day, he was able to escape the idiots at Leys and actually be challenged in his work. He had a natural aptitude for Chemistry. Chemistry simply made sense to him; he could see how all the molecules fit together like a map inside his head. He had stored the Periodic Table of Chemical Elements in his mind palace three years ago. Now, he was able to pull up any information or knowledge from the table at a moment's notice. The next year, he had memorized the shapes of all the models. Both of these facts probably helped with is gift in the subject.

Sherlock's talents did not end with memorization. He was able to take that information and manipulate it to his own understandings. Now that he was in college classes, he had others who were just as knowledgeable about Chemistry as he was. It did not matter that he was younger, those in the class that excelled would meet and discuss different topics in the world of Chemistry and he was often invited.

It was during one of these discussion sessions that Robert, who was actually a junior but had not taken his science requirement yet piped up, "You know, some of these chemicals should be tested. I mean, understanding how they work with each other is great, but we should test how they work on us."

The other three people in the group, including Sherlock, looked over at Robert, after all they were discussing ways to make it easier to notice the nuances in the chemical models presented on the tests, so his comment was a bit out of the blue. John and Matt, the other two boys in the group had knowing smiles, Sherlock looked a bit confused. Then John piped up, "Yes, I think it's time we bring Sherlock into the full experience of what our discussion group entails."

Sherlock still looked confused, until a little vile of liquid and several syringes made an appearance. Matt leaned over to Sherlock and rattled of a series of numbers and letters, "C17H21NO4"

Sherlock's eyes went wide as he instantly assembled the information into the identifiable drug, "Cocaine."

The other three nodded and Robert joked, "It's the only way we can keep up with you."

They prepared the syringes and pulled out strips of rubber to be used as tourniquets. John winked at Sherlock, "I think you'll enjoy this. A mind that moves as fast as yours… what if you could feel the rest of your body moving that fast for awhile?"

Sherlock looked from one to another. Then he started to think about all the trouble he had with his senses the past few years. Maybe that was all he needed, a drug that would make the rest of his body catch up with his brain. He inspected the needle, "Have you got any rubbing alcohol?"

The other students smiled and pointed to the bathroom. Matt replied, "The needle is brand new, but help yourself."

Sherlock was not an idiot. If he was going to do something that he thought might help him, he sure as hell was not going to get an infection from it. He returned a few minutes later and the other students helped him with his first dose. He did not know how to express the feeling. It was nothing like morphine. Morphine had slowed him down, made everything stop, but this was… wonderful. For the first time in his life, it felt like his body was moving at the same rate as his mind. He never knew that was possible. The next thirty minutes was spent in wonder and awe that finally everything was moving together at the same pace.

Sherlock left the study session two hours later. He did not feel as well as he had earlier, but that could have easily been a side effect. Since it was his first time, the other students did not let him have anymore. They all settled in for a second dose as Sherlock was leaving. Sherlock kept the syringe and Robert spoke as Sherlock made his way to the door, "This first one was on us, but in the future, if you wish to participate, it will cost you."

Sherlock's features fell, "But I don't hav…"

"You'll find a way or you can't play," John snickered his response.

"How much?"

Matt said, "You can't work yet and from what you've said, you don't have regular access to money. For now, we'll say 10 pounds per round."

Sherlock thought about it, he was not into movies or buying posters or anything stupid that kids spent copious amounts of money on, he might be able to make this work, "Okay, 10 quid per round."

With that he left.


	8. Chapter 8

_"Try not to start a war before I get home, you know what it does to the traffic."_

The next few years passed in a similar fashion. Sherlock remained in contact with John, Matt and Robert, helping them with chemistry and they helped him attain cocaine. Sherlock was forced to stop taking Chemistry classes, though and used the excuse of tutoring the other boys as a way to be released from Leys' campus. He passed his A-levels in English and philosophy, though just barely. Sherlock started university properly the Fall after he turned seventeen. Mycroft had spoken with him about where best to attend and the brothers agreed that University College London would be the best place for Sherlock. Mycroft was glad to have Sherlock closer to him and Sherlock was glad for the access to the great research facilities. It was the best solution as far as both were concerned.

Sherlock thrived in the demanding research environment that UCL offered. Well, he was thriving in the academic sense. Mycroft had trouble securing a private room for Sherlock, so he had been forced to share space. To say Sherlock and Brian did not get along would be the understatement of the century. Sherlock had not helped when the first day he met Brian, he told him everything that he saw about him, "Inference: Gay Mama's Boy." From that point on, each one decided that the best way to get through this time was to simply stay away from each other. That proved more difficult for Brian, as he was very social and Sherlock was – the opposite. All Sherlock cared about was getting through his courses and out of university as soon as possible.

Besides his Chemistry classes, the only time he found any enjoyment was when he locked himself in one of the practice rooms and played his violin or when he was able to get some cocaine and shoot up. Though, that really was not about enjoyment, as it was about functioning. It was good when his body would catch up with his mind for those brief minutes. Slowly, Sherlock had started to connect with a network of dealers around London, so he was never without the option. Sherlock would not claim to be an addict in the traditional sense and to a point this was an accurate assessment.

It was about two weeks into the second half of the term when Sherlock's hypersensitivity flared. It was a Friday afternoon. Sherlock had finished his morning classes and he had Friday afternoons free. He was on his way back to his room when everything started to be too much: too bright, too loud, too much knowledge about every little thing. Sherlock could not turn it off. Even his clothes hurt. He stripped down and put on a pullover and his pyjama trousers. Then he lay down on the bed. Brian came in about four hours later. Neither roommate said anything to the other for a long time. Finally Brian looked at Sherlock, really looked at him, "Hey, mate, are you okay?"

Brian had not spoken that loudly, but Sherlock curled into himself in obvious pain. Brian was actually concerned about this. It was one thing for Sherlock to ignore him, but for Sherlock to reveal being in any sense of pain – that was odd. Brian approached Sherlock's bed and leaned over, whispering softly, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock reacted suddenly, almost violently, "I'm FINE!"

Brian sat on his bed. The guy was a major git, but he obviously was not fine. He waited a few minutes before speaking again, "Where does it hurt?"

Sherlock moaned. This too was odd as far as Brian was concerned. He had to strain his ears to hear the next word Sherlock spoke, "Everywhere."

That was certainly not right at all, but before Brian could do anything, Sherlock continued, "No hospital."

Well, at least that was typical. Brian watched him a few moments, "Is there anything I can get for you to help?"

Sherlock shrugged, but it was clear that caused him great pain. Finally a soft reply was heard, "Morphine."

So, not only was Sherlock admitting pain, but also he was asking for help – or as near to it as the bloke came. Brian nodded, "Let me get the nurse."

"No!"

"Sherlock, you need help. The nurse can help."

"No hospitals."

Brian sighed frustrated, but it was obvious Sherlock was in pain. He sighed heavily, "Okay. Wait here I'll see what I can do."

"Not like I can go anywhere or do anything."

Brian just rolled his eyes, "Fine, I'll be as quick as I can."

Brian left, Sherlock had not left him with many choices, but Brian was in the pre-med program and already had access to various labs. He knew one of the labs had morphine stored there for testing and research. So, he went and took a small bottle, grabbed a hypodermic needle made his way back to their room as quick as possible. He glanced at Sherlock, who looked worse, even in those few minutes he was gone. That made him feel slightly better about what he was about to do. "I have some morphine here, let me prepare your arm."

Sherlock could not believe Brian had done this for him. Brian was just as surprised, "You do realize we could both get kicked out for this."

Sherlock gasped slightly as the needle was injected into his arm, "I won't tell if you won't."

Brian nodded, "Feeling better?"

Sherlock felt like he could breath again, "Starting to."

"Right, well just sleep and let's never talk about this again."

Sherlock nodded and rolled over. Brian hid the vial and needle, just in case he would need it again later. Sherlock was too smart to be a drug user and it was clear he did not really want to depend on the Morphine, but had reached a point that he did not have a choice. After Brian left, Sherlock forced himself up and took the vial of morphine and hid it with the rest of his drugs. The morphine was helping substantially, but he wanted control over whether he used it or not. Then he went to sleep.

The rest of that year and the next passed in a similar fashion. Sherlock and Brian remained roommates, as much out of despising each other as it was out of ensuring one would not rat out the other. During that time, Sherlock fell more and more into his drug habits. He would cycle, taking the cocaine to speed up his body to catch up with his mind and the morphine when everything he saw became too much. He did not use morphine often, only when the hypersensitivity was truly debilitating. Finally he was caught one night, when he was sneaking back in to his room. Brian had been away for the weekend, so Sherlock saw it as a good opportunity to restock his stash. He was being so careful. That year, their room was on the ground, so it was fairly easy to sneak in and out.

As Sherlock climbed back through the window, he did not notice the shadow sitting in the corner. It was not until Sherlock had put his stash away that he noticed anything strange and when he had, it was only because a familiar voice spoke, "Surely someone with as great a mind as yours wouldn't be doing something as stupid as what it appears you are doing."

"Mycroft," Sherlock sighed, "What are you doing here?"

Mycroft smiled his polite smile that he used with unruly politicians, "As ever, I worry about you."

Sherlock huffed, "Oh? Since when?"

Mycroft had already maneuvered himself into his dream job. It was a position that had never existed before and probably never would again. He would remain a subordinate, receive neither honour nor title, but has the one thing he desires: power. He would remain the most indispensable man in the country, until such a time as his roll with the government ended. It was a position that suited Mycroft just fine. It was easier to control and manipulate things when everyone thought you held no such power.

He was wearing a three-piece suit and a familiar black umbrella was held in his right hand. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a letter. He handed it to Sherlock. Sherlock glanced over his letter of dismissal then looked at Mycroft. His eyes turned the cool blue of anger, "You can't do this!"

Mycroft sighed and gave a weighted stare at his brother, "I only responded to the request that I come and collect you. So gather your belongings, we are going."

Sherlock crossed his arms and a pout passed his features, "No. I'm doing well in my classes; I'm not being disruptive to them. There's no reason to take me away."

Mycroft just looked at him and then moved with such suddenness, Sherlock was too shocked to stop him. Mycroft retrieved Sherlock's stash, "I believe this is reason enough."

With that, Mycroft whispered into the microphone that was hidden in his tie, "You know what to do."

Moments later, three men and two women descended on Sherlock's room. Two of the men restrained him and then moved him out of his room, escorting him to a waiting car. The two women and other man stayed behind to collect and pack Sherlock's belongings. Once the operation looked like it was running smoothly, Mycroft made his way to the black car.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Warning for suicide attempt.**

"_I'll have the gun, please."_

Mycroft had been receiving rumours that Sherlock was getting into drugs for some time. But, he had to wait to act until he had proof. Proof came too late, unfortunately. A Vice-Warden had caught Sherlock sneaking drugs into the building. This was of course reported to the Warden and it filtered its way through the university system. They had a zero tolerance for drug abuse and Mycroft was contacted to collect his brother and remove him from the premises.

When Mycroft entered the car, the first thing he did was grab Sherlock's arm and roll the sleeves up. He could tell that Sherlock had been a user for some time. Mycroft sighed, "I had hoped you would be smarter than this."

Sherlock just stared darkly at his brother. Mycroft pressed a button and spoke to the driver, "My flat."

With that, the car started to move. The brothers made the trip in uneasy silence. Mycroft had conducted some research on withdrawal and prepared himself for a long week. He had already cleared his calendar for the week, but to keep things somewhat quiet, he was not going to check Sherlock into a rehab facility. He knew that would only make Sherlock act out more anyway. So he would do this on his own. When they arrived, Mycroft went to escort Sherlock to his rooms. Sherlock reacted almost violently, "Don't touch me!"

Mycroft nodded, "You'll be singing a different tune in a day or so."

Or so Mycroft thought. Sherlock exhibited none of the expected physical signs of withdrawal. Mycroft was baffled. By the second full day Sherlock was testy from his imprisonment, "I told you. I am not an addict!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and was glad that the blood-work had been returned. He whispered to himself, "Cocaine. That's why he's not showing the physical signs of withdrawal. He was doing cocaine."

Mycroft looked over at his brother who was sulking on the sofa. He immediately started to perform network searches on cocaine withdrawal. He sighed, there was not much information, though he should not be surprised the Internet was still new to the public sector and addiction was still considered a disease that should remain hidden. He contacted his P.A. and had her conduct research on it. A few hours later when she called, the news was less than encouraging. Mycroft had gotten himself in over his head.

It happened six weeks later. Mycroft had Sherlock under 24-hour surveillance. Sherlock was only allowed to leave the flat accompanied and then, only to go to the store. Sherlock was trying to do anything to get a hit. Mycroft had set not only a personal escort on Sherlock, but also three others at strategic points near the flat, just in case Sherlock tried to pull a runner. But never had Mycroft thought Sherlock would do this.

Sherlock had slowly over the past few weeks become more agitated. He was eating, which itself was a surprise to Mycroft. Though it should not have surprised him, increased appetite was one of the symptoms of cocaine withdrawal. The agitation too, was to be expected. Sherlock clearly wanted the drugs and was upset that his plans were thwarted every time. For the past week, there was a building sense of paranoia. It became so bad, that Mycroft had to take more time away from work, since he could not risk Sherlock harming any of his team.

It was a good thing Mycroft's position was minor and most of his work this month could be done from home. It involved reading lots of reports, watching surveillance tapes and listening to bugged conversations. Mostly, Mycroft served as a political clearinghouse of information. He was a short cut, as he had the ability to memorize a great number of details and understand how one action will impact any other department. So taking time away to sort through the vast amount of information was not unusual for him. Mycroft dismissed the attendant and took over monitoring Sherlock himself.

It was two days after Mycroft started his leave that it happened. Sherlock had gone quiet – too quiet. A quiet Sherlock was worse than a bored Sherlock and he had already spent six weeks being bored. Still, it was not completely unheard of and Mycroft brushed most of it aside as Sherlock giving him the silent treatment. Sherlock had finally left the sitting room, deciding to take a bath. At least that is what Mycroft presumed, since he heard the bathwater start.

Sherlock was tired of everything. He was annoyed with his brother and he wanted everything to just stop. At this point, Mycroft was not allowing him to have any drugs in his system at all. Not even the non-addicting ones. Now, Mycroft was back to watching Sherlock himself. He supposed he must have done something to require this, but he could not put his finger on what. After two days of all but ignoring his brother, Sherlock had come to a decision. It was the only way out, as far as he was concerned. If he was not allowed the temporary escape that the drugs allowed for, he would escape more permanently.

Sherlock had been doing a lot of research on methods of death and murder recently. It was the only area that Mycroft indulged him. Sherlock read the books with the greatest of thirst. The nineteen year old started to make connections between how a person was murdered and why they were murdered. He also took an interest in the various weapons used. Basically, Sherlock knew how to kill someone – either slowly and painfully or quick and, well, less painfully. There was nothing painless about dying; he had learned that much from watching as his mother died.

He entered the loo and started to fill the tub with cold water. Striped purposefully and gently folded his clothes into a pile as he waited. Then, he reached into the medicine cabinet and pulled out Mycroft's straight razor. There were two there: the extra-hollow razor, which Mycroft used on a regular basis, and a flat-ground razor. Sherlock knew that the extra-hollow one would not be strong enough for his purposes, so he took the flat-ground razor. Then he sank himself into the cold water. He knew warm water would probably lead to a quicker death, but the cold water would mean the area he would cut would be a little less sensitive. He waited a few minutes, but he did not want to wait too long.

Mycroft looked up at the clock, it had been fifteen minutes since he had heard so much as a peep from Sherlock. That was… odd. He should have been able to hear something, sloshing of the bathwater, or anything. Mycroft narrowed his eyes as he looked towards the door to the toilet. Finally, he stood, went to the door and knocked on it. When Sherlock did not answer, he tried the door, but found it to be locked. Finally panic seized him and he used his shoulder to break his way into the small room. Horror gripped him when he took in the sight. His baby brother was lying in a tub of bloodied water. Sherlock was pale and unresponsive and there was a razor blade that was dropped over the edge of the tub.

Mycroft rushed to Sherlock's side, grabbing his wrists out of the water, but there were no cuts there, "Sherlock, what have you done!"

He did not see cuts on Sherlock's neck either; finally he reached around Sherlock's torso and pulled him over the edge of the tub and onto the floor. That is when he saw the wound. Sherlock had cut his femoral artery; blood was pulsing out of him. Mycroft grabbed a towel to try to stop the bleeding. He knew that would not help much. He ran to his room, grabbed a belt and his mobile and rushed back to the bathroom as he dialled "999."


	10. Chapter 10

"_Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator."_

Sherlock heard some soft mumblings, but he could not tell which direction they were coming from. He tried and failed to open his eyes. He tried to move, but succeeded only in twitching his fingers ever so slightly. He felt like his entire body was made of lead. He heard a soft moan and it took him several moments to realize the sound came from him. The mumblings stopped, he was grateful for that, they were becoming annoying. He tried again to open his eyes; it was a tedious process. It was taking longer than it should. Each time he tried to open them it was as if the lead became heavier simply to keep them shut. He tried to move again, this time it was a bit easier, but it felt like something was holding his arms and legs down. A voice broke through Sherlock's efforts, "Always the fighter."

Sherlock vaguely recognized that voice and he tried again to open his eyes in an attempt to see the owner of it. The voice, a male voice, sighed and continued, "Except the one time it mattered."

"My—croft."

Sherlock did not like how long it took him to get the name out. But, things were starting to get easier. He finally could open his eyes a slit. He tried to raise one hand to rub his eyes, but found he could not. He opened his eyes a bit more and looked down at his hand. It was restrained. If he had more energy he probably would have fought against it, as it was, he just slumped back. Flashes of memories started to return to him: the tub of water, the smirk as he felt the blade slice through the skin, the calm he felt as his lifeblood seeped out of him, Mycroft talking to him, medics, an ambulance and then… nothing until this moment.

"You're very lucky, Sherlock."

"Not as… lucky as… I thought."

Full sentences. That was a good start. He opened his eyes the rest of the way and met Mycroft's. Then he took in the room around him. There was an IV tube in his arm and a bag hung from a hook, he could not read the information from where he lay. He took in the whiteboard across from him but he was not aware enough to comprehend the information yet. Then he looked at his wrists. He was tied to the bed. He tried to move his feet, but his ankles were restrained as well.

Mycroft was silent and waited for Sherlock to take in the hospital room. When Sherlock began to struggle, he finally spoke. His tone was detached, "You kept fighting all forms of treatment. You tried to remove the IVs and were battling the nurses."

"How long?"

Mycroft stared at Sherlock, trying to assess which timeline Sherlock was attempting to ask about. He looked at his pocket watch, "Approximately twenty hours since I found you. You were in surgery for three of those hours."

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes. Mycroft continued to speak, "You managed to impress the doctors. No history of suicide attempts and yet no hesitation marks."

Mycroft stared at his little brother with the expectation of obtaining an explanation. Sherlock sighed, "I've been studying enough. I knew what to do and how to do it."

Talking was getting easier, even if the subject matter was less than pleasant. "You could have told me."

Mycroft's tone had a hint of disappointment. Sherlock huffed, but it might have sounded more like a laugh, "You would have stopped me."

"I did anyway."

"How long do I have to stay here?"

"Well, dear brother, you are now here under suicide watch. I have done what I can, but they wanted me to section you. I have held off on that until we can better assess you."

Sherlock pulled a face, "And you expect me to be grateful?"

"While this is a secure room on a secured floor, you are not in a psychiatric hospital. Cooperate and hopefully you can avoid one altogether."

The brothers stared at each other. Neither said anything for a long time. Mycroft pulled a chair closer to Sherlock's bed and sat down, "I wish you had told me. Depression is one of the side-effects."

Sherlock glared at his brother, "Of what?"

"Cocaine withdrawal."

"And you told them? So now it's in my medical records, 'drug addict.' I'm not an addict, Mycroft, I told you."

"If you're not an addict, then why are you having withdrawal symptoms that only addicts exhibit?"

Sherlock sighed and tried to curl onto his side. Because of the restraints he was unable to, so instead he closed his eyes and tried to ignore his brother.

"Sherlock, I told them so they could treat you properly. Besides, if you had been a normal suicide case, you would have already been sent to a psychiatric hospital. This is better."

Sherlock huffed again, "Yes. I'm sure you have only my 'best interest' at heart."

Mycroft sighed, "I'm going now. I'll check in with you tomorrow." He paused for a long moment before continuing, "There will be consultation with addiction counsellors, Sherlock. If you wish to be released sooner, I recommend you work with them. They have the ability to section you even against my will."

Sherlock waved him off, well as much as the restraints would allow.

The next day was a series of tests and interviews to determine how badly Sherlock's addiction and depression were. Since Sherlock had no desire to remain in hospital any longer than necessary, he was rather compliant. Later that evening, it was determined that Sherlock's depress was a direct result of cocaine withdrawal, rather than any underlying condition that he was using the cocaine for self-medication.

As promised, Mycroft returned that evening. He walked in, took off is outer coat and draped it over the chair. Then he pulled the chair near Sherlock's bed and took a seat. Sherlock had just finished supper and he just glared at his brother as he got settled. "No word of greeting, brother dear?"

Sherlock sat in silence. Mycroft tried to smile, "I'll take that as a 'No,' then." He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a small pocket notebook. He pretended to read it, after all, he already knew what he was going to say. "You did well. You have them completely convinced that your habit is a simple addiction. I will be much more difficult to convince."

Sherlock sat up at that, "How do you know that? I'm of age, my medical records are confidential!"

Mycroft's eyes narrow, "They _were_. Since you have attempted to kill yourself, I have been granted access as the last known person to have guardianship over you. Setting up the lasting power of attorney was quite easy for me."

Sherlock was beside himself he growled, "Get out."

"I beg your pardon."

"You heard me! GET. OUT! Now! I don't need you and I don't want you and you do whatever you like without asking me! GET OUT!"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed, "Fine. But remember, the only thing stopping you from getting a section is me. I thought that my having power of attorney would be preferable to you being in a psychiatric hospital. I guess I was wrong."

Mycroft started to gather his belongings. That gave Sherlock a few moments to think. He decided that some freedom was better than no freedom, "Rehab facilities."

Mycroft paused and turned around to face his brother. He raised an eyebrow to show he was listening. Sherlock continued, "If this is all about the drugs, fine, send me to a rehab facility."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed trying to figure out what Sherlock's plan was. Sherlock sighed in frustration, "I'd have more freedom there than here and you won't have to go snooping around because you know I'll be cared for."

Mycroft tilted his head, "Are you suggesting a compromise, Sherlock?" Mycroft honestly could not believe his ears.

"As if you're giving me a choice. If I'm going to be sentenced, I'd like to choose the punishment."

"This isn't punishment," Mycroft sighed and sat back down, "Don't you get it? I care about you. I don't want to see you destroy yourself." His voice faded to only a whisper, "I love you and never want to think about coming across your dead body again."

He was not sure if Sherlock had heard him or not. For a long time Sherlock remained silent. When he finally spoke, it was two words, "Rehab facility."

Mycroft got the message, though. It was as close as Sherlock could offer to "Thank you" or "I love you too." Mycroft stood calmly, "I'll make the necessary arrangements." With that he left.


	11. Chapter 11

"_Don't talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the entire street."_

Sherlock was doing well in his month of rehab. He was glad to learn that he was allowed to smoke here. Nicotine, though not as effective as cocaine, served its purpose and helped him to function. He said nothing during the group sessions, unless he was directed to talk and then he said as little as possible. It was harder to escape that during the counselling sessions, but even his therapist could tell he was not the typical addict. It was halfway through the month when Sam, a man in his late twenties finally called him out, "You're self-medicating. Why?"

Sherlock shifted, almost unnoticeable, in his chair. He had convinced the hospital staff and everyone in group sessions that he was willing to accept that drugs ran his life. But that was a bold-faced lie. And here he thought he was nearly free and someone finally figured him out, "What makes you say that?"

Sam smiled, "You want to know how I know?" Sam leaned forward, "Because I've been around the block a few times, Sherlock. Look, you can talk here. I know that your brother brought you here and that legally he can request my notes. But these sessions aren't recorded and I can describe the session, even topics discussed without spelling out details."

Sherlock stared at him, silent for a few moments, "Why would you do that?"

Sam nodded, approving the question, "Several reasons. First, because I don't think you trust anyone – you certainly can't seem to get along with people long enough for them to get to know you. I want to get to know you. You fascinate me. Second, because your brother mentioned that you told him you weren't an addict and I might be willing to explore that possibility that you know yourself well enough to say something like that. Third, because my addiction was self-medicating and looking over your records, I would say that your reasons for self-medicating are different from my own."

That was something Sherlock had never heard before. In fact, no one had ever been this transparent with him. Sam was a patient man and waited for him to reply. Finally Sherlock sighed, "You'd never believe me if I told you why."

Sam arched and eyebrow, "Try me."

Sherlock rose to the challenge, but replied with only one word, "Is."

"What do you mean, 'is?'"

"You said your addiction _was_ self-medication, since you're still an addict, you should really use present tense."

Sam flushed faintly, "It's true we are addicts for the rest of our lives, Sherlock, but I've been sob…"

"No."

Sherlock's reply was cold and sharp, "You can fool everyone else, _Sam_, but I can see the truth. You're on a three-day cycle. Meth, if I had to guess. You're on day two now. Starting to get a little twitchy. You feel the stress of the job, the kid at home… Single father, wife died eight years ago? That was the catalyst for your addiction. You couldn't cope with the depression. They tried different antidepressants, but nothing compared to the feeling that meth gave you. So you quit trying the other drugs and stuck to meth."

He paused and just watched Sam patiently waiting for a response. Sam did not disappoint, "H-how did…"

'You asked me why I'm self-medicating. I have provided you with the answer."

Sam shook his head, "What does my life have to do with your…"

"Because it's how I see things! All the time. Every moment of every day. I can't turn it off. All day long, it's a constant stream of information. When I take drugs, I can control it, to an extent. At least I feel balanced between my body and mind."

Sam sat back. He had never encountered anyone like Sherlock before, "And how were you…"

"It's hardly difficult, Sam. Job stress – is there another way to describe the 'helping professions?' The child – there are pictures of her on your desk at different ages. A photo of a mother holding baby while still in hospital, but not any other pictures of her. Mum died soon after the birth of the child, then. The most recent picture of the child, she looks about eight years old, so your wife died eight years ago. Then there's your addiction. You're a smart man, maybe you did research, maybe meth was just the first drugged offered to you, either way it was the depression that led you to the drugs. Now, three-day cycle. That would be easy for anyone to notice if they bothered to pay attention. Day one, the morning after, you're alert and jovial. Day two, you start to get twitchy, just a faint tremor, as your hand is shaking now. Day three, you become rather introverted, because you know if you spent too much time with anyone, they would discover your secret."

Sherlock delivered his deductions with absolute calm. He had no idea what he was putting the other man through. He gave Sam a weighted glance, "Did I get anything wrong."

Sam was shocked and pulled a hand across his face. He took a long breath, "How did you see all that?"

Sherlock shrugged, "I don't know. I just do. And drugs help me to deal with it when it becomes overwhelming." He paused for a long moment. "Do you believe me?"

"Bloody hell! It's hard not to." Sam swallowed hard and continued, "So the suicide attempt?"

Sherlock sighed. This whole 'suicide thing' was getting rather dull, "Was because I can't cope with all this information all the time and my brother had cut me off of all drugs, including cigarettes. The only time I felt like everything came back into balance was the thrill of risking it all…"

Sam looked at Sherlock like he was mental, "Y-you tried to kill yourself because you were _bored_?"

Sherlock sat straighter at that thought and an odd little smile tugged at his lips, "I suppose I did. Thank you for bringing that to my attention. I will have to find other ways to channel myself."

With that, Sherlock exited the counselling session. Sherlock did not have to see Sam again. The next day, Sam quit, though Sherlock had not told anyone else of Sam's problems, the risk was just too great. But, Sam had offered Sherlock one piece of insightful information: Sherlock could not be allowed to get bored. Now that he understood that, the rest of the rehab went very well. He said the right things, did the right things and was soon released.

Mycroft came to pick his brother up. He was going to help Sherlock get settled into his own place. Mycroft did not ask how things went, but did ask Sherlock if he had learned anything. Sherlock replied, his tone an odd combination of whimsical and dark, "Don't ever let me get bored."


	12. Chapter 12

"_Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe, I'm trying to think."_

Mycroft pretty much forced Sherlock to live with him after his release from the rehab centre. Everyone at rehab might have been taken in by Sherlock's progress, but Mycroft had his doubts. For one, Sherlock was smoking like a chimney: three packs a day. When Mycroft had checked him in, it was only about a half pack a day. Mycroft wanted to keep an eye on Sherlock to make sure that the increased addiction of cigarettes did not transfer back to cocaine – at least not right away.

The problem was, various experiments started to appear in the spare bedroom of Mycroft's flat, courtesy of his brother. He did not complain though, something about Sherlock's warning of not letting him get bored made a great deal of sense. So Mycroft put up with it. That is until he received a phone call from the fire brigade. He rushed back to his flat. The HAZMAT team was exiting the flat. Sherlock was seated in the back of an ambulance with a blanket around his shoulders and an oxygen mask in his hand that the medics kept reminding him to use as he breathed. Mycroft stormed toward Sherlock, "What the hell happened?"

Sherlock looked up at his brother and shrugged, "It was an accident; too much hydrochloric acid."

Mycroft sighed and was quiet for a moment then it struck him, "Sherlock?"

"No! It was a normal experiment. I wasn't trying to create," he glanced around them, "Anything."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and waited for Sherlock to continue. Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Look, I was testing to see how fast different bodily fluids would break down under specific circumstances. And then I was testing how much hydrochloric acid would be needed to make them completely water soluble."

Mycroft twisted his lips expressing displeasure, but gave Sherlock a glance that said he should explain further. Sherlock obliged, "I think I want to get into forensic science. I've been reading all those books and I think I'd be really good at it. The problem is, they only run experiments like this after there's a crime, so they never know what to look for when they visit the crime scene. By the time they think to run such tests, they only have pictures and written reports on which to base their theories. If I run these tests now, then I'll know what to look for when I'm at a crime scene."

Mycroft considered Sherlock carefully. It actually made a lot of sense, except for one thing, "Sherlock, how many criminals would use hydrochloric acid?"

"Not all criminals are idiots."

Mycroft could not argue with that. So the next day, Mycroft found a flat for Sherlock and within three days, he had Sherlock settled into it. It was a basement flat, so that Sherlock's antics would bother as few people as possible. It was a one-bedroom small flat, where the kitchen and sitting space were virtually the same room. Still, it served Sherlock's purpose. He could do his science experiments or research. Most useful things were in walking distance: the library, Tesco, tube stations, and even King's College Hospital was not far. Mycroft had arranged for Sherlock to be able to use the hospital as a lab space. He introduced his brother to the person who would act as Sherlock's on-site sponsor, Doctor Marcus Striker. Marcus was in his early thirties, but had already made a name for himself as a doctor and research scientist. At first Sherlock thought the whole thing was ridiculous. He did not need a sponsor when it would be perfectly easy to walk in and use the labs like any number of the students did.

Sherlock was soon do discover he was wrong. Marc was more than just a teacher. He performed research as well and took Sherlock under his guidance as an assistant. Sherlock's talent and knowledge of Chemistry served to help Marc with his research. Mostly it focused on how different medications are broken down by the body, in order to create new ones that would last longer. It was not as interesting to Sherlock as say, reading the _Diary of Jack the Ripper_. But, Sherlock was also learning things he otherwise would not. Besides, when looking at drugs in their pure form, it was a bit of a mystery to Sherlock why the body broke down some drugs rather quickly and others were considered 'long lasting' with no additive to the drug to change it. This way, he could look into the chemistry behind it. Maybe he would even be able to find or develop something better than nicotine or cocaine.

Marc and Sherlock had been working together for three months when it happened. Sherlock was running tests on barbiturates. The uses of the drugs had been slowly limited over the years, but it was still fairly potent. The problem was, all the samples Marc brought to him were contaminated. None of the samples offered were from a physically healthy person. Sherlock got it into his head that in order to run proper analysis of the drugs; he needed to have a sample from a healthy person. Sherlock had a small vial of the drug and found a syringe. He knew, from the information Marc supplied him with, how much of the drug would need to be in his system. He filled the syringe with the proper amount and then injected it.

"Sherlock!"

A familiar voice called to him. There was intensity to the tone, but Sherlock could not decide whether he cared enough to answer or not.

"Sherlock, wake up!"

The soft Welsh accent did not belong to his brother, which left Marc Striker…. Marc. Striker. What was the last thing he had been doing? Oh, the experiment! Sherlock suddenly sat bolt upright – a move he wish he had not made – his head was throbbing. Marc was on the ground next to him, "What 'appened, mate?"

Sherlock's words were groggy as he tried to offer some form of reply, "I don't… I was just…"

Sherlock's voice faded and Marc took over, "Got a crack on your 'ead, that's what. Remember anything?"

Sherlock shook his head. It was not until Marc helped him back into his stool that he remembered. He sighed heavily, "I needed another sample…"

Marc looked around the lab and started to piece together what happened. It was no difficult leap, "Oh, Sherlock! You didn't! We should probably have you looked over."

Sherlock waved him away, "I'm fine…. Now. But if you must, you can do it."

Marc just shook his head at him, "I should have you banned from lab work."

"Look at the results, though. It's different."

Marc picked up the results and looked in the microscope. He smiled when he saw what Sherlock had found. While it was to be expected that it would react faster on tissue that was damaged, it was not as fast as some of the other theories had said. This was interesting, it did not change anything within his research, but it was interesting. He looked over at Sherlock, "Well, let me at least look at your head, you might be concussed."

Sherlock did not fight Marc as he went through the visual tests. Considering the drug Sherlock had injected himself with, Marc also listened to his heart and took his blood pressure. Everything was close enough to normal. Marc just sighed, "Next time you decide to do something stupid, please tell me first. In fact, might be best if I'm here for it."

Sherlock just gave Marc his look that told Marc he was being an idiot. Marc shook his head at Sherlock. He knew it was pointless to say more and that Sherlock would do whatever he darn well pleased – especially if it was in the name of science.

The next five years passed in a similar fashion. Sherlock started to take an interest in the morgue and in the name of 'research' started to spend copious amounts of time there. It was, in fact, research. At this point, he would only share his deductions with the pathologist, Bobby. But, by spending time in the morgue, he started to have run-ins with various members of the Met.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: I didn't realise until just now that I had not converted my Word grammar/spell-check to use UK Standards. I apologise for this oversight. Probably doesn't matter to most of you, but I 'hear' the British accents better when I use British spellings. Over the next few days I'll be submitting the corrections to the previous chapters. The one thing I won't change is the abbreviation for "Mr.," "Mrs.," etc. I need the period there for myself when I read. (You can blame dyslexia on that one.) Thanks to all who have been reading this story! Updates will come as I can write them.  
**

**This chapter references an email in "A Study In Pink – Pilot" and the beginning of "The Man With the Twisted Lip" by ACD.**

* * *

"_Do a lot of drugs, Mr. Holmes?... I ask because you're very resilient." Jeff Hope, A Study in Pink – Pilot_

Sherlock was now twenty-four and had been working with Bobby and Marcus at King's College Hospital for five years. After Sherlock's first year, Marcus and Bobby both were able to petition the hospital to hire Sherlock as a 'research consultant.' Which annoyed Sherlock to no end. But since they tended to give him the odd cases or problematic research cases, he was entertained enough. He was starting his own business on the side. Mostly the cases were boring and predictable: cheating spouses, employees embezzling money form their companies and the like. Still it was a place to start. Due to his association with King's College, some of the lower-level police officers were starting to recognise his talents. Sometimes. Bobby would even let him give some of his insights to the police officers.

Things were going well and while not entirely what Sherlock wanted to be doing, it was a step in the right direction. He had another two years before Mycroft would release some of the inheritance into his name, but he was making enough to live on. However, in those five years, the area Sherlock was living in became quite rundown. Mycroft was encouraging Sherlock to move. Mostly because he was concerned that Sherlock would be tempted to get into drugs again. He had been doing so well. Over the past five years, that Mycroft was able to tell that Sherlock had only used twice. Neither time was a binge. Sherlock appreciated that Mycroft never said anything. Sherlock was not an addict in the traditional sense. However, he knew that Mycroft would interfere in his life again if he lacked all responsibility.

Sherlock was reading one of his books – some would call it relaxing. He had just helped a Greek Orthodox Church nearby find a thief who had stolen a church bell. It was a fairly easy case, once Sherlock realised that the church was viewable from the bedroom window of the thief. Still he had not had anything else to do and it kept him entertained for a couple of hours. There was a loud knocking at his door. It was panicked, so more than just a client. A client he already knew. He answered the door and a woman rushed in and pulled him into a fierce hug, "Oh, Mr. Holmes, I don't know what to do!"

Sherlock could hardly recognize the woman, draped as she was from head to toe. Finally, he got a hand on the hood that was hiding her face in shadow and pulled it back, "Kate! What's happened?"

He knew it had to be something drastic. Kate knew he did not like physical contact if he could help it. Kate was gasping for breath, trying to regulate her breathing long enough to speak, "It's Isa, he's in a terrible way."

Sherlock knew Isa Whitney. He was a director of Information Technology at a local high school. Sherlock had met him when he needed his first hit three years ago. Isa, knew the best place to go and even had some tips on how to make the high last longer. Beyond that, he was a technology wiz and Sherlock was able to learn a great deal about computer hacking from him. Isa was your typical white-collar drug-user. He would go on his binges, but was more or less function during the workweek. He knew his habit well enough that he was never incapacitated more than a day when he had a serious binge.

Kate, his wife stuck with him through it all. Sherlock really saw not purpose to this, other than she was well cared for by him. She stuck by Isa through thick and thin and in return he took care of her every need. Isa would never subject Kate directly to his habits. So when he went on his binges, he would be away on a Friday night and most of the day Saturday. But here it was, late Sunday evening and he still had not returned.

"I know it's a lot to ask of you. But, would you come with me to check out the dens? I-I wouldn't want to tempt you, but I'm so worried for him."

Sherlock nodded. Those dens were not even safe for most men. Someone innocent as Kate would probably be killed – or worse. After all, Sherlock was well aware that death was not the worst thing that could happen to a person. He was not looking to get involved, but this was so out of character for Isa and, honestly, it would be rather inconvenient for him to loose his IT man. "Okay. I'll go. But I go alone, that is no place for you and you'll only slow me down. Go back home, in case he returns on his own. Text me – don't call – if he turns up."

With that, Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf – it was a chilly March evening. Sherlock and Kate parted ways and he made his way to the crack den, where he hoped Isa would be found – preferably alive. There were several dens in this area but only two that Sherlock had visited. Finally he gulped and picked one. As he was getting to the door, all hell broke loose, as a massive explosion tore through the building next door. The force of the blast flung Sherlock first against a wall in the alley and then he slid to the ground. A moment later, rubble and debris started to pummel him. Although he tried to protect his head, a flying brick caught him on the side of his head and he fell unconscious.

The next thing Sherlock was aware of was the sound of sirens and voices slowing breaking into the darkness. Then he became aware that he was being touched all over and a calm, but authoritative voice calling out, "Sir!"

Sherlock groaned and heard something about an IV. He tried to say no to the medical treatment, but just opening his eyes sent a wave of nausea through him. He felt several hands on him as they rolled him to his side and a flat board was leaned against his back and he was rolled back onto his back. He was quickly strapped to the board. A part of his brain registered that this was a backboard and they were worried about a neck or spinal injury. But, that quickly passed as all the movement intensified the nausea he was experiencing. He tried to warn them but it was too late he vomited and started to asphyxiate. The medics quickly realised what was happening and rotated the board to the side again. Sherlock nearly gagged again as he felt a gloved finger invade his mouth and throat to clear the vomit away. When they rolled him back onto his back, though he could breathe slightly easier. He was still coughing, but the medics were simply telling him to calm down. The idiots did not understand that he was still choking on his own vomit.

After a couple more minutes, he was lifted onto a trolley and transported to the ambulance. Once there, they used the suction to clear out his airway and put an oxygen mask on him. It was easier to breathe that way. He tried to tell them to not give him drugs, but he was not sure if they understood him or not. At some point during the ride to hospital, he lost consciousness again.

"Sherlock."

The tone was soft, almost tender. Almost. Still, Sherlock had less than any motivation to give the voice his attention. The blessed darkness was so much easier.

"Sherlock."

The voice called again. It was half imperative, half pleading. Sherlock slowly opened his eyes. He noticed that his room was fairly dark. This was good. He had a headache and he feared any amount of light would make it worse. But he felt woozy, like he did after…"No!"

He cried as he sat up. He immediately regretted it as the force of his headache became stronger with his movement. He closed his eyes and groaned.

"They didn't know. Now that you've been identified, I'm having them change over your medications."

Sherlock put a name to the voice, but his own was not more than a whisper, "Mycroft."

"Well. You didn't suffer any permanent brain damage, then. I would think I would be the first to go, if you were given the opportunity to delete me from your mind palace."

A fond smile graced Sherlock's lips, "How did you find me?"

"It's been four days since the explosion. No one had heard from you and I had not seen you."

Sherlock grimaced, "I know you're my big brother and all. But using government equipment to spy on me is a bit much."

Mycroft ignored his brother, "I had heard about the explosion and I thought surely you had not been there. But then I saw a police report of a," he pulled out a notebook and read from it, "Katelyn Whitney. She mentioned you had gone there to look for her husband. From there, it didn't take too long to find you."

Sherlock opened his eyes, just long enough to glare at his brother. Again, Mycroft continued, "And you end up here, King's College Hospital, your 'home away from home.' Convenient for you, isn't it?"

"I didn't take any. I didn't even get inside. I was at the door when the explosion happened."

Mycroft heavily, as if showing extreme patience, "So I deduced from the information in the reports. And I know you weren't there to have your own needs fulfilled. It was still stupid to even subject yourself to that temptation. And in this case nearly deadly."

Sherlock grimaced, "Isa was in the other building."

Mycroft gave a curt nod. Sherlock continued, "I knew he was in one of two, I just couldn't figure out which one."

"And for once I'm glad your deductions were limited, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned, "If I had been sooner or had…."

"You would be _dead_! Don't you understand that?"

Sherlock shrugged to show he did not particularly care. The brothers were silent for a long time. Finally, Sherlock spoke again, "No lectures? No threats to send me back to rehab?"

Mycroft lips curled in the smile he used for political dignitaries when he was about to put them in their place, "Oh, I think the withdrawal you're about to experience will be punishment enough."

"I _didn't_ use!"

Mycroft gave him a pointed look, "_This_ time. Good night, brother dear. I'll check on you again tomorrow."

With that, Mycroft left. Sherlock was frustrated. He could not tell if Mycroft knew he had been using or if Mycroft was only saying that to get a rise out of him. It did not much matter as he felt the darkness start to take him again as the automatic release of morphine flowed into his blood stream.


	14. Chapter 14

"_It's one __possible __explanation of __some __of the facts."_

Sherlock had several cracked ribs and a concussion that was healing rather well. He had been in surgery to remove one piece of debris that had punctured his lung. Sherlock hated the loss of time he felt. Four days, Mycroft had said. Four. He still needed to talk to Kate. Marcus and Bobby came to visit him on their breaks and members from the drugs squad of the Yard came by to interview him as well. Sherlock really had no choice but to cooperate. All they had to do was mention Mycroft had contacted them. He hated how his brother meddled in his affairs. He was just fine on his own.

Sherlock was released that evening, more because he made himself positively intolerable rather than the fact that he was actually well enough to go home. Mycroft came to collect him, even stayed in Sherlock's flat for an hour to ensure his brother could handle being on his own. Mycroft also made an obligatory search of Sherlock's flat. Relieved to find no drug paraphernalia and certain that Sherlock was not exhibiting any major withdrawal symptoms, Mycroft left.

Sherlock's recovery went quicker than expected. Of course between Mycroft, Bobby and Marcus checking up on him, he did not have much choice but to rest. It was five days after his release from hospital when Sherlock approached Scotland Yard to offer his services. His friend had died in the explosion and he had nearly been killed. It had been well over a week since the explosion and still there was no word on what caused it or why it happened. There had been a few scant articles, mostly rejoicing that the den had exploded and maybe they could 'reclaim the city from the drug lords.' A few others stating that it was obviously some accident from one of the addicts. Sherlock felt the Yarders were not working to their full potential. He was set on solving it for them.

Sherlock was shown to the office of Inspector Luke Bradstreet. The inspector greeted him, "Mr. Holmes, have a seat. What can I do for you?"

Sherlock paused as he was sitting down; in fact, he was considering walking out now. He had told no less than five people the reason for his visit and none of them could pass along the information to the inspector? No wonder they had not solved the case yet. Sherlock sighed heavily, "I presume you know that I was caught in the building explosion last week?"

The inspector nodded and Sherlock continued, "According to the papers, or rather what _isn't_ in the papers, you either have had no leads or you don't care enough to do anything about it."

Inspector Luke Bradstreet leaned back in his chair, "You have something new to offer?"

Sherlock nodded, "I would like to see the reports and take a trip to the scene."

Bradstreet raised an eyebrow, "Tell me what you know."

Sherlock shrugged, "It wasn't an accident. In fact, who ever it was had something gas based…"

Sherlock paused and gave the inspector a weighted glance. He leaned forward at that, "How do you know?"

"Because there was black smoke."

The inspector quirked his lips, "Professional grade, then. Not that it would be difficult for the criminal classes to get any on hand." Sherlock offered one nod, but the inspector continued before he could say anything, "The thing is, Mr. Holmes, how you know about such things?"

"I was wounded in the explosion. If you're asking if it was me, as my statement says, I was there to collect my friend, who happened to have died in the explosion. I just want to see this case solved. And I know these things because I research them. The internet is a beautiful tool, if you know how to use it."

Sherlock left off that he did not think the Yarders were doing their jobs or that he was getting the impression that no one else cared. The inspector nodded, "Why should I show an amateur the reports or let you into the crime scene?"

Sherlock smirked, "Shall we discuss the powdered sugar raspberry filled doughnut you had on your way in late to work today or the fact that you're concerned that your teenage son is developing a drug habit?"

Inspector Bradstreet sat there and stared at Sherlock for a few minutes, "H-how did you know?"

"I didn't _know_, I _saw_ and then made deductions based on my observations."

When it seemed Sherlock was not going to speak anymore, the inspector gestured for him to continue. Sherlock sighed, but indulged the man, "In your bin there's a bag from Martha's Bake Shop. They only serve one kind of powdered doughnut there, the raspberry filled kind. I know you were late, because traces of sugar are still on the corner of your lips and the lapels of your jacket – meaning you haven't had time to look at yourself since you've eaten. Simple. Then there's your son. On your calendar, the name Dr. Fitzsimmons and the acronym SJRF appears. SJRF stands for Saint Jude's Rehabilitation Facility. I know that because I'm familiar with Dr. Fitzsimmons' work. Therefore you have an appointment with her. This isn't about you or a case, because it's written in the lower right-hand corner of tomorrow's date, meaning that it's not related to work, but you don't want to forget to call either. Looking at the pictures around, there are only photos of either your son, or you and your son together, meaning that his mother is no longer part of your life. When I entered the room, you already knew that I was one of the drug addicts from the case. You didn't make eye contact with me, but focused on the photo of your son. Inference, my presence reminded you of him."

Bradstreet just sat there stunned for several minutes, "Right. So do you want to read the reports first, or go to the crime scene first?"

Sherlock smiled, "Crime scene. I dislike reading police reports, they tend to cloud my judgement and then I jump to conclusions like all the other idiots out there."

The inspector was about to voice his objection to that statement but thought better of it. With that he gestured to Sherlock and informed him they would ride in his car. Sherlock spent twenty minutes in the crime scene. Most of the evidence had been destroyed in the explosion or the subsequent rescue efforts. There was, however, still plenty for Sherlock to deduce. By the time they left, Sherlock had informed the inspector that this was a terrorist strike, poised by the Real Republican Army.

"But why attack a drug den," the inspector asked, clearly not getting it. Sherlock rolled his eyes, "It's obvious, isn't it?" Bradstreet just looked at Sherlock blankly, finally Sherlock continued, "Well, their purpose is to have a unified Ireland and to end the British rule over Northern Ireland. They need funds to keep things going. There's a lot of money to be made in drugs. But then, eight months ago, this other den opens, taking away their cash flow. What better way to get rid of competition then to destroy it. The police would see it as them doing a favour, so no one would think it was anything more than an accident."

Sherlock could see the minute the inspector cottoned on, "So, success for them, they destroy their competition and no one would think to go after them because, by shutting down a drug den, they sort of did the city a favour. That's actually brilliant."

Sherlock gave a curt nod, "And deadly."

A few weeks later, Sherlock was working in the lab a King's when Bobby came up to see him, "Sherlock, an Inspector Bradstreet is in the morgue. He wants to see you."


	15. Chapter 15

"_They don't recon for a second - there's another way in."_

It was not long after Sherlock provided insight about the bombing that he no longer needed to be employed by King's. Inspector Bradstreet would send him clients. If there were cases the Yard could not investigate, for whatever reason, he would direct them in Sherlock's direction.

Soon, Sherlock was developing a reputation of his own. However, he was inconsistent in how he charged. The more boring and mundane the case, the more he would charge, the more interesting, the less. The most difficult cases, he would do for free. This was to Bradstreet's confusion and Mycroft's annoyance. But Sherlock was starting to earn enough to make his own way, so there was little Mycroft could do about it.

Sherlock still used cocaine, but it was sporadic and usually when either he did not have a case, or when a case was proving too difficult to solve. Oddly, there was still a cycle to his use. It would be between four and eight weeks that something would happen and he would need the release or insight the drug offered him. But, on the whole, he was doing well and he never binged.

Mycroft was not pleased with Sherlock's continued use, but he knew there was little he could do about it. He was too focused on creating his dream job and as long as Sherlock was effectively staying out of trouble, it allowed him to focus on what he wanted to accomplish. There was no point in making waves, if Sherlock was not making himself a nuisance.

Usually, when things are finally going smooth is just when the world collapses around us. So was the case for Sherlock. Sherlock would often peruse the newspapers and online reports. It was not always to get cases. Sometimes it was to see if he could solve cases just by information presented in scant articles. It had been six months since Sherlock had met Detective Inspector Bradstreet when he saw the article.

"**Scotland Yard Pays Tribute to Fallen Comrade**"

The headline was in bold letters. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat when he saw the small photo of Bradstreet. He calmed slightly when he read that the inspector was not killed, simply collapsed unexpectedly from a heart attack. The funeral had been the day before. Not that Sherlock believed in such sentiments, but he would have attended the funeral, at least out of respect for the man who had given him his proper start.

Sherlock did well for the first few days after learning that Bradstreet had died. But then, he had cases to work on. Now, four days later, he had nothing and was dealing – or rather not dealing – with the strange emotions that were drifting through his mind. He had been strong as he did not want to turn to drugs off the cuff, but that all changed. A drugs bust went down two streets from Sherlock's flat as he was walking home one night. The addict turned down an alley and Sherlock saw him toss a small something in a corner. When the police came around the corner, Sherlock pointed which direction the addict had run. Once they left again, he went to the corner and retrieved a small bag. He took it with him back to his flat.

He sat in his chair, his fingertips pressed tightly together and his chin resting against his index fingers. He was contemplating the small bag. He had opened it, smelled it and knew what it contained. He would have to convert it into liquid form, which would not be terribly hard to do. He smiled, realizing he had been lucky. It was not heroine. It was his drug of choice: cocaine. He chuckled grimly. Had it been another drug, his resilience might have been stronger.

Sherlock flipped back the area rug and lifted a specific plank. From the space underneath, he brought forth a small wooden box. He replaced the plank and rug. Then he sat the box upon the table. He stared at it for a long time. Finally he slowly, almost lovingly, released the latch. The inside of the box was lined with soft material, which provided protection for the items securely held within it. There were three clean syringes – he would probably have to get more eventually – a strip of elastic band he could use as a tourniquet and a vial of hydrochloric acid. The rest of the required items he had from the mini-lab he maintained in his flat.

Sherlock just needed a break from the things going through his head that he did not understand or like. The general population would call them feelings, but such sentiments Sherlock had decided he did not need. Why worry about them when the simple injection will just make it all go away? It was with that thought that he tied the tourniquet, inserted the needle into a vein and pushed the drug into his system. He knew he would have approximately three minutes before the drug reached its maximum effectiveness. That gave him time to carefully put everything back into the box and slink onto the bed.

Sherlock felt better - until mid-way through the next day. He knew the depression would happen. It always did. That was the trouble with cocaine. He received this amazing high, but he paid for it later with a deep depression. It was the depression he was trying to escape. He was always trying to get away from it. No one ever understood him. No one ever even tried. Not even Mycroft. But with the drug... He understood everything when he took the drug. And the drug made everything better. He could feel the way he wanted to feel. He had total control over himself.

He had total control until the crash hit. That was the beauty of the situation. He had plenty drugs to last him… well at least several days. When it is injected rather than snorted, a little goes a long way. Now that his connection to his more difficult cases was dead, what did he have to look forward to?

It did not matter, because he had no desire to face it anyway. He understood how the drugs worked with the dopamine in his brain. He knew that in the hands of someone less knowledgeable than himself, he was probably playing a dangerous game. The difference? He was not an idiot. He knew what he was doing and understood the risks. Besides, he simply did not care anymore.

To say Sherlock enjoyed the drug would be to say he was an addict. He was not an addict – just ask him. Well, it was not the drug he was addicted to, anyway. He was addicted to many things: the risk of getting caught, the risk of an overdose, the way everything just disappeared. He was even addicted to the way his mind and body felt like they were in sync for those precious few hours. Basically, he was addicted to the feeling of not being bored. The drug itself, he was not addicted to that. If he could find anything else that offered this specific combination, he would use that instead.

It was a dark hole that Sherlock was circling. Not that he cared enough to do anything about it. There actually was not a lot he cared for these days. He stopped taking clients and stopped leaving his apartment – except to gain more drugs. The benefit of cocaine is that it tricked the mind into thinking he was always full. Sherlock started to sell off his belongings, so that he could keep a roof over his head. He started to blackmail people. It was much easier to get money by simply agreeing to keep his mouth shut. Ultimately he had to move out of the flat and into a sleeping room. But still, the drug had its hold on him. Mycroft eventually found out and cut Sherlock off from all finances. So Sherlock ended up homeless and on the streets.


	16. Chapter 16

"_Sherlock always has a plan. Yes, and it's gone wrong." - A Study in Pink Pilot  
_

The first month or so, living on the streets was not so bad. It was late spring, so Sherlock would find a dark corner to sleep in during the day and he would spend the nights wandering the streets. It was like a new adventure in those first weeks. Sherlock loved it. Of course, the near constant high served to encourage his rosy perception.

Mycroft had confiscated his violin just before he was kicked out of his sleeping room. Well, that is not quite true. Mycroft, for some reason Sherlock never understood, had retained Sherlock's first full-sized violin. It was cheap, by violin standards; it had only cost around 100 quid. Well, cheap by Mycroft's standards anyway. Sherlock's current instrument cost nearly 30,000 pounds.

While Mycroft knew that Sherlock would never sell the violin, he also knew how distraught Sherlock would become if anything happened to it. So, one night, the week Sherlock was being evicted from his sleeping room, he sent some men in to swap out the violins. Sherlock knew what Mycroft had done and he even understood why, but that did not stop him from calling Mycroft and giving him an ear-full. Sherlock was grateful though; Mycroft did not have to trade out the violins – he could have just taken it and left him with nothing. But then, Sherlock would be lost without it. Lost without the hope to ever be found again.

The violin Sherlock was left with was not a basic student violin, but it also was not the quality of his current instrument. Still, it was a bit like reading a favourite story from childhood. As an adult, you could understand different things, but it was still familiar and enjoyable. So, Sherlock would pick random corners during the lunch and evening rush hours and play the violin. He also discovered that if he picked particular corners during the morning rush, he would do pretty well. Most of the money went to pay for the drugs he desperately wanted but he would set aside a few bits so that he could eat food every now and then. All in all, it was not a bad way to live.

But that was spring. Springtime he only had to worry about the occasional storms or the night-time temperature getting too low. Sherlock's ability to turn up money – and his unique generosity with it earned him respect and companions among the homeless. He shared what he could, after he purchased his drugs. When he could not share money, he shared his musical talents, encouraging others to pick up instruments and play. He learned quickly that not only were his deductions unwanted, but also they were unneeded. He found most homeless to be more honest than pretty much anyone else. Sherlock had found a niche of sorts and he carved a more comfortable place using his bow and violin.

As spring gave way to summer, however, there was heat added to the mix. The sort of heat that led to violence and people committing stupid acts in general. It was also the sort of heat that led drug dealers to raise their prices and start fights – which usually ended up with someone dead. For the most part, Sherlock tried to stay out of trouble whenever the heat seemed to make everyone crazy. The trouble was, with his drug-addled mind, he was not completely in his right mind himself. Still, he was with it enough to avoid the CCTV most of the time. He did not want Mycroft to find him – if at all possible.

Sherlock had garnered a reputation among the dealers. His ability to observe allowed him quite a bit of bargaining power, but it also meant that he could sometimes stop violence before it started. He rarely, if ever resorted to any form of violence. Though, he was pretty good in a fight, when it came to that. Usually the properly phrased threat was enough to make everyone back down. All of these elements came together and worked against Sherlock, proving nearly fatal one night.

Night – it was actually two-thirty in the morning and Sherlock had just finished his last performance of the night. It was too easy to get money from drunken people – most did not know if they had given a quid or a tenner. That was just fine for Sherlock's purposes. He had not done as well as he usually did – even for a Wednesday. He had packed up his instrument and was returning to the cubby he had created for himself. Jorde was arguing with a client just inside Sherlock's alley. Sherlock looked them over. Not a client – a prostitute. She did not want drugs for her services, but Jorde did not have cash, at least he did not have cash he wanted to spend. He was used to getting his way and using drugs as his currency.

Sherlock stayed out of the alley. There were at least three different ways he could get to his cubby, but something about the tone of Jorde's voice made him stay. He was worried for the prostitute. The woman was fairly young and clearly had not been on the streets that long. She had attended university for at least a semester. She was turning down drugs, which meant she was not an addict. She must have come upon hard times – selling her body to continue her education, that was it. Oddly, Sherlock admired that.

Jorde, on the other hand, wanted his way. Which was to say he wanted sex and wanted it any way he could get it. He pulled a knife on the college student. She gasped and Sherlock winced. He tucked his violin in a corner where it would be safe enough and then slowly approached the scene. Sherlock acted like he was slightly high, it would give him an advantage if Jorde thought that he was slightly incapacitated, "Hey Jorde! How's it going?"

"Sherlock. Why don't you run along to whatever hole you climbed out of? This is none of your business."

Sherlock took another glance at the girl. She seemed safe, even if a bit scared. He had to get them separated. "Why don't you run along home? Jorde and I've got some business of our own to attend to."

Sherlock then planted a kiss on Jorde's cheek. The girl did not wait. She took off quickly and did not look back. Jorde, however was very angry, his knife still in his hand. Sherlock had miscalculated how angry Jorde would be. "You bastard! I wanted a piece of her!"

Jorde then shoved the knife into Sherlock's side. Sherlock gasped in pain and stumbled away from him. Jorde was not deterred and removed the knife Sherlock looked at him like he was an idiot. Blades always do more damage being removed than they did when they entered. Jorde saw the blood covering his knife and hand and took off running. Sherlock tried to put pressure on the wound with his hand, but it was already becoming difficult to breathe. He slumped against the wall for a few moments, trying to orientate himself. No CCTV cameras were around here, that's why he had chosen this place.

"Stupid," he mumbled to himself. He needed help and fast. He saw a shadow pass at the other end of the alley. He recognized the form. He called out softly, "Bat!"

Bat was a fourteen year old who had been on the streets for two years. He was small and quick on his feet, he earned the name 'Bat' because the kid never seemed to see what was in front of him, but his hearing was exceptional. Bat was one of those people who would benefit often from Sherlock's generosity. Bat cautiously approached Sherlock. Anyone else would be able to see just how hurt Sherlock was, but not Bat.

"Sherlock, what're you doin' out here? Streets ain't safe in this heat."

"Sherlock needs Bat's help. Bat must find the Deacon."

Bat's eyes went large, "Sherlock hurt?"

Sherlock only nodded, "Bat must hurry. Tell Deacon knife in chest, she'll know what to do."

With that, Bat took off to get Deacon. Deacon was a surgeon who lived in the area. She had been born addicted to heroine and always struggled with drugs. She spent most of her younger years on the streets, but she was always very smart. She was able to turn her life around in college. She never forgot her roots and so stuck close to the homeless to help those she could. She and Sherlock sometimes worked together and they both had a mutual respect for each other.

Sherlock knew he should probably try to stay awake, but with each passing moment it was getting harder and harder. Deacon knew where he slept, if he could get to his cubby, he could use the weight of his body to add pressure to the wound. There was the matter of his violin as well. It was the only symbol left from his former life. He would not dare see it stolen. He pushed himself away from the wall and slowly stumbled his way to where he had hidden the instrument. Fleeting thoughts about the amount of blood he has lost and how much time he had left crossed his mind.


	17. Chapter 17

"_You take your time. Get yourself together. I want your best game."_

Sherlock woke days, weeks or hours later. He was not sure. His surroundings were more comfortable than he remembered his cubby being. In fact, he could not really remember making it to his cubby. Last thing he remembered was that he needed to get his violin, then… nothing.

"You're a very lucky man, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock tried to make sense of the disembodied voice. It was female, which meant it could not be Mycroft. It seemed vaguely familiar, but he could not place it. He slowly tried to open his eyes. When he had them open a slit, he could see he was in a plain bedroom. It was not a hospital room. He croaked out quietly, "Wh-where am I?"

A straw appeared in front of his lips and he heard the command, "Drink."

He did so. The water was cool. Not so cold as to shock his body, but cool and refreshing against the rawness of his throat. He tried again to open his eyes. This time, a face swam into view. He paused a moment before speaking, "Deacon."

She smiled and set the cup somewhere to the side of the bed. Sherlock was still confused about where he was, but he figured if Deacon was here, he was safe. His voice was still raw, but he spoke anyway, "What happened?"

Deacon sighed heavily, "You nearly bled to death. Bat found me, told me what you had said to him and I got my bag and followed him back to you. Stephanie – that was the girl you helped, she had returned to your side after Jorde left. You had your violin case and you were obviously trying to get back to your cubby." She paused for a moment, "You saved her life, Sherlock."

Sherlock seemed uninterested in this fact. But, deep down it made all the difference in the world to him. He groans more than speaks, "How long?"

"You were in a terrible way, so they bundled you into my car and helped me to get you up here. I did what I could to patch you up. I couldn't get access to any blood for a transfusion, but I was able to get an IV bag. That was two days ago…"

Sherlock started at that information and tried to sit up. He was still very weak and it did not take much for Deacon to press him back into a reclining position, "You're safe, Stephanie is safe, Bat is safe, and your violin is safe."

Sherlock did not relax until he heard the mention of his violin. He nodded and relaxed completely. For a minute, Deacon thought that Sherlock had fallen asleep, but then he cracked an eyelid open. "How bad is it?"

Deacon could not help but smile at that, "You had a punctured lung. I should have taken you to hospital, but they wouldn't have done much more for you than I did. You need to stay here a few more days. I'll show you how to dress the wound and give you some clean bandages. Then you can be back to doing what you do… Though playing your violin might be painful for awhile."

With that Sherlock nodded and dropped off to sleep.

That was not the first instance of Sherlock putting his life forward to save someone and it would not be the last. Though it was one of the few times he was so brutally injured. He began to have a reputation among the Homeless Network. Those who knew him from the early days started to call him "Black Angel." This was partially due to his colouring: he always wore black and with his dark hair, his skin tone looked exceptionally pale. There was another reason why he earned that name. Though he never killed anyone who would threaten or harm those Sherlock felt devoted to, he would make their lives very difficult, if not incapacitate them permanently.

Sherlock was not a good man. He knew it and regardless of how those who defended him felt, he would never be convinced otherwise. Still, to have such a Network in place proved to be very helpful. Those he felt he could trust in those early days, Deacon, Bat, Maggie and Webber all knew a bit of his background. They knew he was from money and that he could return to money, if he cared about that sort of thing. But they also knew Sherlock wanted more out of life than that. And well, he actually did pretty well on his own.

The next four years passed in a similar fashion. He would, on a rare occasion, allow a CCTV to catch a glimpse of him. That was more to show Mycroft that he was still alive than anything. He would help protect those he could and would drop hints to the police without revealing himself. He had established his network and he was able to barter and trade for pretty much anything he wanted. He continued to play his violin and earn scraps of money, which he generously shared with his Network.

Then, one day, everything came to a sudden stop.

* * *

Gregory Lestrade was a newly promoted detective inspector, on his first case with that title. He had dark hair that was just starting to show some grey areas at his temples and dark eyes. The case would be a fruitless one, he was pretty certain. After all, getting homeless to talk about anything to them was practically impossible. The body they were looking at had been there at least three days. The man had not died here, that much was obvious, but they were not getting much farther than that.

What was strange was the call that had come in had been for gunshots being fired. But at least in the few blocks surrounding the area, there was no evidence of what might have happened. Gunshots were hardly unusual in this part of London, but still, something about this whole thing bothered him. He directed forensics and once they were doing their jobs, decided to expand his search area on his own.

The detective inspector had walked another two blocks when he heard a strange sound. As he made his way down the alley, it sounded like someone sniffling. It was difficult to make anything out in the dark, so he raised his gun just in case anything happened. He approached the sound cautiously and called out softly, "Hello?"

A dark figure ahead shifted slightly. The figure was huddled over something, as if trying to protect it from sight. DI Lestrade reached into his pocket and pulled out a small torch. He spoke again, "Are you hurt? I can help."

The dark figure shifted again and that was when he saw the figure was huddled over another body. Lestrade raised his gun again, he could not make out if the dark figure was hurting the other body or trying to help. He slowly took a few more steps closer. That was when the torch highlighted the figure and off he heard the soft sobs, "Tell me what's happened, I can help."

The figure simply shifted again, trying to stay out of the light. Something about this made Greg think that he was not in any danger. He took a couple more steps closer. Both figures were clad in dark material. The one kneeling had a head of dark tangled hair. It was hair that if clean would probably be a curly mess. The skin was exceptionally pale. The dark figure was cradling a body. A hand was dragging along the ground. Lestrade lowered his gun, "Let me see. Please. I can help."

The figure clutched the body closer in a protective manner. That was when the torchlight reflected off something moist on the pavement. Greg realized it was not water, but blood. He swallowed thickly, "Let me see, I can help."

He crouched down and was approaching as non-threateningly as possible. He slowly reached out and grabbed the wrist of the loose hand looking for a pulse. He sighed, finding none. His focus shifted immediately to the man cradling the body. There was nothing he could do for the victim, but maybe he could help the man. Using the torch, he could see the man was covered in blood, but he could not tell if it was his own or not. He repeated his earlier question, "Are you hurt?"

He still received no reply. A scouting team entered the alley from the other direction. The man did not seem to know where he was; he simply stared at the body he cradled. Lestrade tried to signal the team away, but they did not head his warning. One of the uniformed officers approached and touched the man. The man released the body and turned so quick that no one had a chance to respond. Before anyone knew what happened, the officer who had touched him was on the ground nursing a broken nose. The other officer immediately restrained the man.

DI Lestrade felt like he had lost control of the whole situation. The man was just staring at the dead body. Because the man had hit an officer and was not speaking, Lestrade had no choice but to take him to prison. They walked the man back to the staging area. An ambulance was standing by and once they confirmed the man was not wounded himself, he was bundled into the backseat of Lestrade's car and Lestrade dove them to a station with holding cells. The man remained silent and said nothing.


	18. Chapter 18

"_Get out! I need to got to my mind palace."_

Lestrade was concerned about the unidentified man. The outburst seemed to be directly related to the officer touching him, so Lestrade thought it best to remain with him and warn anyone else. He touched him as little as possible, but once the booking was complete, he was able to get the man to change clothes and shower. He did not understand why he was taking such an active interest in the man; there was just something about him, but Lestrade could not name it.

Once the man was clean and changed, Lestrade led him to a holding cell. He tried to get the man's name, but he simply would not speak. The man looked better – and worse – after getting cleaned up. His hair was a bit unruly, but made him look really young maybe early 20s, but the way he carried himself he might be late 30s. Lestrade locked him in and then leaned against the doorjamb just watching him. The man had not made any other act of violence since punching the officer. He seemed almost catatonic. He would have to have a psych evaluation before being allowed into the main part of the prison. Oh, this case was turning into a mountain of paperwork. Lestrade sighed and started to make his way out of the holding area.

It was mid-December, so although it was already dark, it was only seven o'clock in the evening. Lestrade wearily made his way back to his office. He had an office now; sometimes he still could not quite wrap his head around it. Of course, having an office came with the mountains of paperwork he was dreading. He could get another hour of work done before he returned home – just in time to put the kids to bed. Well, that was his plan, at any rate.

* * *

A soft, yet commanding knock on his door, drew Lestrade's attention from his paperwork. "Enter."

A tall man, not much younger than Lestrade entered the office. He was wearing a three-piece suit, had a wool trench coat draped over his arm and was carrying a briefcase and umbrella. His dark-red hair stood in stark contrast to his light coloured eyes. Something about the man's presence brought Greg to his feet. He gestured to a chair across from his desk, "Please sit down."

"Thank you."

Greg waited in silence for the man to say why he was there. After a pause, during which Greg felt like the man was sorting out every secret about him, the man spoke, "My name is Mycroft Holmes. I believe, Detective Inspector Lestrade, that you have my little brother in custody."

Greg stared at the man – Mycroft. There was no one that he had been in contact with who had the last name of "Holmes." Certainly no one from a family who seemed as well-off as this man. Greg narrowed his eyes, "Possible, there are lots of people in custody these days. I think half of 'em are just looking for a warm bed for the night."

Mycroft clearly did not appreciate Greg's lightheartedness, his voice was commanding, "You brought a young man in. And I mean you personally, Inspector Lestrade. I would like to see him. Now."

* * *

Sherlock knew he was in his Mind Palace, but it was as if the Mind Palace had turned in on itself. There were doors and rooms all around him, but none of them had windows and none lead to the outside world. He might have panicked, if he had cared. The only slight concern was that all the doors were locked. So he could not get out, but he could not enter any room either. All he could do was wander the halls. Still, being stuck in his Mind Palace was better than anything the world was willing to offer him, especially these days.

He did things automatically. When the handcuffs were placed on him, when he was made to walk, shower and change clothes. Nothing mattered. All he could see were Bat's eyes as the bullet hit him. All he could hear was the way Bat screamed his name as the bullet pierced his heart. All he could feel was the way Bat's blood coated everything. Bat was dead before he hit the ground, Sherlock knew and yet he had gone over, cradled his body and tried to ease the lad's suffering as much as he could. Being in his Mind Palace was better than what the world offered him.

Once Sherlock was led into the holding cell, he stood there for two full minutes. Finally he curled himself onto the small bench. His back was against the wall, his arms curled around his legs and his feet were resting on the bench as well. But he was not aware of anything at least not in a way that would allow him to process the information accurately. He kept trying to lock away the experience of that night. But his Mind Palace was refusing to cooperate. He would not let himself leave until he again had strict control over it.

* * *

Lestrade just stared at Mycroft for a few moments. Finally, he closed his mouth and mutely nodded. He stood, "Just this way."

He was not sure what compelled him to take Mycroft to the mysterious man, but it was probably some mix between wanting to know who the man was and, well Mycroft looked like he could kill him with his eyes if Lestrade disobeyed him. He swallowed thickly as he showed Mycroft the way, "I have him in a holding cell under 24-hour watch until we can get a psych eval. He seems strange."

"Strange. Strange how?"

Lestrade shrugged, "Once he was under my care he did everything I asked him to, but he doesn't seem like he knows what's going on around him."

Mycroft nodded, "The report said he punched an officer."

Greg nodded grimly, "But I don't think it was his fault. I think he was startled. He was holding the body of a young man. If I didn't know better, I would have said it was a son or younger brother." When Mycroft said nothing, he continued, "The young man was dead. Clearly had been shot through the chest. Probably died instantly. Your…. Brother… I thought I was getting through to him, but the officers came up behind him and grabbed his shoulder. I tried to warn them off…"

Mycroft sighed heavily, "Do you know anything about the dead man?"

Lestrade shook his head, "Both looked like they were homeless." He pointed to the cell, "We're here. I-I'm sorry I can't let you be alone with him."

Mycroft nodded his understanding as Lestrade stepped to the side so that he could look in. Again, Mycroft sighed heavily, "His fingerprints wouldn't turn anything up. His name is Sherlock Holmes. He is my brother."

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and handed Lestrade some documents. He looked them over and nodded, "I still can't let you be in there alone."

Again, Mycroft nodded, "I understand."

But Lestrade could tell that Mycroft was completely focused on his brother, staring at him with the same piercing glance he had felt earlier. He shuddered and opened the door allowing Mycroft and himself to enter. Then he closed the door behind them.

"I must request that the monitoring of this cell be ended."

"I-I can't… that's above my rank."

Mycroft pulled a card out of his wallet. Lestrade gaped at it, then at Sherlock, then at Mycroft. Finally he gave a signal and the camera and audio recording ceased.

"Thank you." With those words, Mycroft approached his brother. Lestrade watched with interest as Mycroft was doing some sort of evaluation of his brother, but he could not tell what he was looking for.

"Was he high when you arrested him?"

Lestrade shook his head, "I-I don't think so. He looked more distraught than high."

Mycroft nodded and continued with his assessment. After several more minutes, he spoke, "I need to get him somewhere warm and familiar to him."

Greg's eyebrows drew together, "He's in police custody, I can't just let you take him away."

Mycroft pulled himself up to his full height and stared down the inspector, "Then you shall come with us so he can remain in police custody."

There was no room for argument in the tone, but the documents that Mycroft had shown earlier spoke louder. This time it was Lestrade's turn to sigh heavily, "Very well."


	19. Chapter 19

"_I worry about him…. Constantly."_

Gregory Lestrade did not have much choice. From that one card that Mycroft produced, he knew that the man could do whatever he wanted. Yet Mycroft did not completely breach the issue of police custody. He could not figure out why, the man had more power than the queen, apparently, but he did not break any official protocol.

A short time later, Greg found himself and the Holmes Brothers inside one of buildings along Pall Mall. To his utter amazement, when he walked in and looked around, he realised, "Y-you live here."

Mycroft nodded, as he gestured down the hall, they were both helping Sherlock along the way, "There's a spare bedroom just there. He should be quite comfortable there."

Greg nodded mutely as he tried to take in everything that was happening tonight. Once they had Sherlock in the bed he looked at his watch, "I should call my wif-"

"Everything has been handled."

Greg just shook his head, amazed at what was happening, "Right, okay."

Mycroft started to shed layers of his suit until he was in his shirt and trousers. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt than sat in a chair and watched his brother intently.

"I'll just go make some tea, this will be a long night."

Mycroft waved him off. Only Greg did not have to make tea. There was a cook in the kitchen waiting for him; she already had a tray laid out. Greg picked up the tray with a word of thanks and returned to the bedroom. When he returned, he saw Mycroft had a book and was reading to Sherlock. The book was _Treasure Island_. Greg looked from one brother to the other and back again. He offered Mycroft a cup of tea and then prepared one for himself. Then he sat in the recliner that had appeared in the room while he had been away.

"You're very calm. You know what's wrong with him?"

Mycroft nodded and set the book down as he took the tea, "He's stuck in his Mind Palace."

Greg chuckled as he spoke, "His what?"

"Mind Palace. For some, it's simply a memory technique. For Sherlock and I, it's how we organise every aspect of our lives. You can place memories, information, anything, really. Then you can recall it so long as you find your way back."

As Mycroft spoke, Greg heard a hint of compassion and concern that had not been there previously. He could not stop himself from asking, "So how do you mean he's suck there?"

"Something must have happened, I can only guess that he knew the young man who died. That he had some kind of connection to him. The fact that a young person died and Sherlock wasn't able to save him would be rather traumatic. At that point living in his head becomes preferable to reality."

Greg looked up from his tea at that, "What? Like a fugue state?"

Mycroft shrugged, "No. He knows who he is. He's stuck in his head in a very literal way. His Mind Palace is so elaborate that it can seem just as real to him as sitting in this room. Imagine, if you will your house. Now imagine you are inside of your house, but all the doors are locked, so you only have access to the open areas. And you can't get out of your house either. I suspect that's what has happened to Sherlock."

Greg shuddered at the though, "That would be it's own special hell."

Mycroft shook his head, "I don't think it would be for him. At least not yet. As long as all the doors remain locked, he should eventually find is way out again. But should his mind turn against him. Should some of the horrors he has experienced in his life start terrorising him while he's in there… Well, I would rather not think about that until I have to."

Greg had no idea what he had gotten himself into; this whole thing was too bizarre for words. He could not help asking the questions though, "Anything we can do to help?"

Mycroft nodded, "We're doing it. This is his room. Or at least, it is a room I set aside for him. But he knows it and it is familiar to him. As is my voice and this story. I have never seen him completely trapped in his Mind Palace before, so this is all theory, based on other experiences we have shared."

"Wait. If he has this place, why did he look like he's living rough?"

Mycroft sighed heavily and took a sip of tea before replying, "Our relationship is tumultuous at best. Also, his desire for cocaine is stronger than his desire to live in comfort."

Greg nodded. Oddly, his time with the drug squad had taught him there were a lot of people who felt that way. He took a sip of his own tea before asking another question, "He's not catatonic, though. I mean, he did whatever I asked him to."

Mycroft set his tea on the side table, "I know. That is why I brought you with. There's something about you, Inspector. Maybe it's the way you handled the drugs bust two years ago. Whatever the reason, my brother respects you enough to still respond to you even in his current state."

Greg gasped, "Holmes! Sherlock Holmes! Oh, I am an idiot…"

"He wouldn't disagree with that."

Greg continued as if he hadn't heard, "I didn't recognize him. He helped us to catch a dealer down near the Vauxhall Arches. I could tell he was an addict and was surprised by the aid he gave. He explained that this dealer had a habit of requiring physical pain as a method of payment. I don't know why I didn't recognize him."

"My brother is very much not himself at the moment, Inspector. But clearly you made some kind of impression on him."

Lestrade just nodded, "So, your voice, familiar surroundings… anything else?"

Mycroft sighs, "We don't know how long it's been since he's eaten or had anything to drink. I think for tonight we just need to see what happens."

With that, Mycroft picked up the book again and started to read. Lestrade figured it would be a long night, so he relaxed back into the recliner and simply watched the two brothers. For all of Mycroft's power and prestige, his voice was quite animated when it came to reading. Soon, Lestrade was in a place between wakefulness and dreams where the story that Mycroft was reading danced before his eyes.

* * *

Sherlock was actually starting to worry. It was one thing to be in his Mind Palace, it was quite another to not have access to anything but the passageways. The memory of "The Event He Wanted To Hide" was following after him as he wandered looking for an unlocked room to store it in, at least as a temporary measure. What worried him more was that some of the doors were starting to warp. It was as if they were becoming a rubbery material and the memories on the other side were pushing to get out. He could not allow that to happen. He knew if they escaped, they would be just as horrible as the memory he was currently trying to hide.

Sherlock picked up his pace. If he kept moving, maybe he could confuse the memories and they would not catch him. No matter how hard he tried, they were able to keep pace with him. Now, he was starting to get scared. The memories were changing shape without his permission. They were becoming rabid beasts. They had huge teeth with saliva dripping from the fangs. They were growling and making other terrifying noises. He could hear the bests clawing at the doors and the one behind him was stomping faster as it was catching up to him.

Usually, Sherlock could move with ease from one part of his Mind Palace to another. Sometimes it would simply take a flick of his wrist. But nothing was working properly. He actually had to physically run from one part of the palace to another. He started to take the various stairwells. Some were winding and some were straight. Sherlock stuck to the staircases that turned, again in an effort to confuse the memories. But, nothing seemed to be stopping them.


	20. Chapter 20

_What might we deduce about his heart?_

Eight hours had passed when Inspector Lestrade awoke. Even though the curtains were closed, he could make out that the sun had risen. Mycroft appeared to be finishing the novel. Lestrade's eyes looked over the young man in the bed. He was sweating and appeared to exerting great force, possibly running in his sleep.

Mycroft finished the last paragraph and looked over at his brother. He sighed heavily, "He should be awake by now."

He could not quite keep the quiver out of his tone. Greg looked up at that and then followed Mycroft's gaze towards Sherlock again. Greg narrowed his eyes, "Dreaming?"

Mycroft shook his head, "No. I do believe he is stuck in his mind palace. But, everything he stores there is starting to turn against him."

Greg sighed heavily, "More like nightmares then."

"Worse."

He raised an eyebrow, "What's worse than nightmares?"

Mycroft leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, "Imagine everything you wish you could forget – regrets, the deaths of family or friends, failures. Now imagine those memories taking on physical form and chasing after you. I think that is what my brother is experiencing now."

"Oh, God."

Mycroft nodded silently.

"What can we do to help him?"

Mycroft sighed, "I honestly don't know. I had hoped reading this story, the sound of my voice and the familiar surroundings would be enough."

Greg looked from one brother to the other. Sherlock started to make subtle movements and he mumbled, though it looked like he would be running and screaming, if he could.

* * *

Sherlock could not get away. No matter what he did, the beasts were keeping up with him. He was running at full speed now, tearing his way through the palace. Suddenly he felt himself being pulled to the ground. When he finally collapsed, the beast clawed at him. He tired to get up again, but was restrained. Then another joined the first. He recognized this one. It was everything to do with Mother's Death. The two beasts together restrained him and then picked him up and started to carry him through the palace. They were going lower and lower. Sherlock tried to escape, but they were too strong for him. Another beast joined the other two. This was he knew was Drugs. That one could open the doors within his Mind Palace.

They were carrying Sherlock down the stairs – deeper and deeper into the palace. He was certain he would not be able to escape. He then cried out the only name that made sense at the moment, "MY-CROFT!"

* * *

Mycroft and Lestrade watched as Sherlock started to move around more. They both looked at each other for a brief moment as they clearly heard Sherlock whisper, "Mycroft."

In less than a second, Mycroft was at his brother's side, taking Sherlock's hand into his own, "I'm here, dear brother. I'm here."

Lestrade felt like he was intruding on something very personal. But, he could not pull himself away either. He did not understand why he was here, but it is not like he had anywhere else to be, thanks to Mycroft. He watched the two brothers, Mycroft as he gently ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and Sherlock as he continued to thrash.

"Sherlock, come back now. Just follow my voice. You're safe." Mycroft's voice was thick with something akin to emotion, though Lestrade doubted any truly existed within the man.

* * *

Sherlock was terrified. He did not understand why Mycroft was not helping him. He did not want to open his eyes, the beasts were so horrifying – reminding him of everything he wanted to forget. Suddenly, a blinding light pierced through the horrors surrounding him. Sherlock was glad his eyes were closed. The beasts surrounding him whimpered slightly. Sherlock heard a voice; his brother's voice. Mycroft was there. Mycroft was the light. He just had to get free from the beasts and he could escape.

* * *

Mycroft continued to stroke Sherlock's hair. At the same time he whispered quietly to his brother. Lestrade thought the words were total nonsense, but brothers sometimes develop their own language and so he did not question what he was witnessing.

Mycroft had never been so scared in his life. If Lestrade had thought Sherlock was high at the time, then he would not be showing such – compassion. But Lestrade had assured him that Sherlock was not high and that left only left the possibility of the Mind Palace going wrong. Mycroft just kept talking to his brother, hoping that his voice would be enough to guide his brother back to the present.

* * *

Sherlock hesitantly opened his eyes. He was still in the Mind Palace, but now it was lighter. The light did not hurt his eyes. The beasts were whimpering in pain, from the light. Floating above the chaos, Sherlock could hear his brother's voice. It was warm and kind, but there was a hint of worry that surrounded it. If Mycroft was worried, this was indeed a bad situation. Sherlock had to get out.

The beasts were loosing the hold they had upon Sherlock and he was able to wiggle a bit more. His only thought now was to get out of the mind palace. Usually, he would be concerned and want to do everything in his power to protect his Mind Palace, but he did not even care about that anymore. The beasts could have it – they could tear it to pieces for all he cared, he just wanted out.

Now that Sherlock could see, he could make his way out. All he had to do was follow the light. He realised the sound of his brother's voice created the light. The beasts still had their hold upon him and so as he began to move, he was dragging them with him. Whatever happened, he had to leave the beasts behind.

* * *

Greg looked from one brother to the next, still feeling out of place. He shifted uncomfortably. Mycroft spoke to him, but kept his focus on Sherlock, "Your time is coming, Inspector. Right now he needs me, but soon he'll need you."

Lestrade was getting anxious, "I still don't understand what I'm doin' here."

"You will in time."

Sherlock interrupted their conversation. He gasped, tried to sit up and moved his hands up and down his body as if he was trying to push things away.

"That's it, Sherlock! You can get away. Just follow my voice."

Mycroft's voice still sounded tender, but there was force behind it now. He continued to murmur words of encouragement, his focus totally taken by his brother now.

* * *

"Let. Me. GO!" Sherlock cried against the beasts. They were quite weak now and Mycroft's voice was getting stronger. Finally, Sherlock was able to push them off his body. With that he jumped to his feet and took off running again. This time, he was looking for a window or open door or anything that would get him out.

He was running so fast through his Mind Palace that he hardly had time to take stock of its deteriorating condition. He made his way through the winding staircases again. He took every corner at a sharp angle and ran as fast as he could.

Finally, he made it to the grand entry of his Mind Palace. All the windows were still covered, but he could see the light trying to force its way into the palace. Not in a threatening way, but in a way to save him. As he wandered through the foyer, he could see the door out of the corner of his eye, but whenever he tried to look at it directly, it vanished again.

Sherlock forced himself to calm down. He knew how this worked. If you look right at things, sometimes you can't see them. So, he picked a point on the next wall to focus his attention. Then he used his periphery vision to see the door and make his way towards it. He only hoped that the door was not locked.

He got to the door and pulled on the handle and nothing happened. He tried again and suddenly the knob turned into a hand and was pulling him away from the Mind Palace and into the light.


	21. Chapter 21

"_Not exactly Fort Knox__."_

Mycroft again took up Sherlock's hand. He was surprised when his brother tried to remove his hand from his grip. Mycroft held on tighter, "I'm not going to let you go, Sherlock. Not this time. I've got you."

He paused for a moment, "Now, wake up!"

The order sent a shiver down Lestrade's spine. He began to hope the lad would respond to his brother's command for all their sakes. He did not want to think about what would happen if… well, he just didn't want to think about it. To his relief, Sherlock moved slightly.

A moan could be heard coming from Sherlock's lips. It was a cross between pain and effort. "That's it, Sherlock. You can do it, just follow my voice. Come back to me."

Mycroft's voice was tender, in stark contrast to the tone used when he ordered his brother to wake up. It was a slow process waiting to see if Sherlock would wake or not. Mycroft could not be sure if he and Lestrade were breathing at all. It became agonising. Sherlock was not fighting his hold anymore; instead it had become a vice-grip.

Suddenly, Sherlock sat up and gasped. He was covered in sweat with the effort and cried out, "Mycroft!"

Sherlock grabbed his brother and wrapped his arms tightly around any part he could. Sherlock was shaking from head to toe. He was muttering nonsense about "being stuck" and "couldn't get out." Mycroft awkwardly cradled his brother, as much as he could without climbing into the bed himself. He did his best to calm his brother. After a few moments he spoke quietly to Lestrade, "Get a cup of tea for my brother, if you wouldn't mind? And a small bowl of cool water – not cold, mind – and a flannel. Imogen will help you."

Lestrade nodded, "Right, I'll be quick as I can."

Sherlock was still caught between reality and what had happened in his mind. He looked at his brother intently, but with the wide-eyed innocence he used to have when he was about six-years old, "Mycroft? Why didn't you stop it? Didn't you know? You could've stopped it."

Mycroft thought Sherlock was talking about what had just happened, "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I didn't know. And I can't just get into your mind whenever I want. It's a bit like Fort Knox in there. Besides, that kind of talent doesn't exist, you know that."

Sherlock shook his head, "N-no I mean 9/11 and 7/7. Didn't you know? In all your power, wasn't there anything you could have done? And… how do you not let those memories attack you?"

And there was the actual question Sherlock was asking. Mycroft stared intently at his brother wondering what had happened inside his Mind Palace. Then he decided he did not really want to know. For Sherlock to ask such questions, it must have been terrible indeed. He sighed, debating how to answer.

Luckily, Greg returned with the requested items just then. He actually had three cups of tea and prepared and handed one each to the brothers. Mycroft took the flannel, soaked it in the water, wrung it out and placed it on Sherlock's head. Mycroft made to stand then, but Sherlock grabbed his wrist, "Don't go."

There was a twitch to Mycroft's lips, he looked at Lestrade and back to his brother and sighed deeply, "Bunge up."

Sherlock did his brother's bidding and Mycroft sat on the bed next to him. The three men sipped their tea in silence. After nearly an hour when Sherlock finally seemed calm, Mycroft sent Lestrade away, but requested that he return that evening. It was Lestrade's day off, so that would work well enough. He left, but did not quite know what to make of the Holmes brothers. It had been an exceptionally weird night and he did not know if he wanted to return. He supposed he could re-evaluate after a hot shower and a kip.

Sherlock was terrified to go to sleep, but Mycroft offered him some sleeping pills and Sherlock took them without much argument. Once Sherlock was asleep, Mycroft laid next to him to catch a bit of sleep himself. He hoped he could help his brother thought this ordeal.

When they woke in the mid-afternoon, Mycroft had Imogene bring them some lunch, a large pad of paper and some crayons. After they ate Sherlock looked at his brother with a dubious expression. Mycroft needed to find out how bad the damage was, and he figured some imagery is useful. He handed Sherlock the pad of paper and the crayons, then he spoke softly, "I doubt you'll want to return to your Mind Palace anytime soon, so we're going to try this to see how bad the damage is without going it."

"I hate psychology," the younger man grumbled.

Mycroft nodded, "I know. But this way is better than the alternative, don't you think?"

Sherlock shrugged, but did not disagree. Mycroft nodded, "Good. So I want you to draw the following items. They all need to be on the same page, but how you incorporate them is up to you. If you want to write the list down so you don't forget, that would be good, because I'm going to be leaving you for a few hours, there are matters at work to which I must attend. Finally, I won't be interpreting this. You will. I'm only trying to offer another method."

Sherlock nodded a bit reluctantly. Mycroft knew this was not going to be easy for either of them. Mycroft listed off some images, windows, drugs, dwelling, flowers, rooms and furniture. Then he turned to go, "Take your time. The good Inspector will return this evening and if you feel more comfortable, you can talk about this with him rather than me."

With that, Mycroft left the room and Sherlock set to work.

A few hours later, Lestrade returned to Mycroft's flat. Not that he had been given much choice when the black Jaguar pulled around the corner of his neighbourhood to pick him up. Imogene welcomed him in and offered him some dinner. She informed him that Mycroft had been detained at work, but he was welcome to visit with Sherlock.

Greg took her up on her offer for a meal and asked that she stay to keep him company. Once she served him some of the hearty stew, she took a small bowl for herself and sat at the table with him. He studied her for a bit, "So, you've known them long?"

She nodded, "Since Sherlock was ten."

"Ah, a long time, then."

She smiled, "Yes. But, they're special and they treat me well, so it has been worth it."

"Why aren't you talking with Sherlock, then? Why bring me into it."

"Mycroft asked me to and for once I refused him, saying it wasn't my place. But it's more than that. It's because Sherlock will interpret my presence as pressure to stop doing drugs. And he needs to do that because _he_ wants to. If he does it for me… Well, it will change our relationship and I don't think that would be good for either of us."

Lestrade reached out a hand and gently covered hers. It was strange, he really had not known any of them more than a day, but he already felt completely a part of this very strange and mysterious… Family? "You're close to him. He's trusted you in ways he can't trust his brother."

She smiled softly, "I see why Sherlock likes you. You're fairly observant, unlike most of the Yarders – well according to him, anyway."

Lestrade tucks into his bowl again, more to get away from her looks. This family was so odd – even their help was strange. Maybe this is what happens to you if you spend too much time with the Holmes brothers. Still, he could not just leave. So, when he had finished, Imogen sent him to Sherlock's room with a tea tray in his hands. He gently tapped on the door and then quietly and slowly entered.


	22. Chapter 22

_I _am_ a show-off. Its what we do!_

Gregory Lestrade could not have been more shocked by anything than what he saw when he entered the room. Covering every flat surface available was covered picture drawings: the walls, the floor, even a few on the ceiling. He gasped in surprise, "Holy Mary!"

Sherlock had not heard Lestrade enter, but turned around when he heard the exclamation. There was nothing he could do now. Nowhere he could hide, so instead he gestured around, "My Mind Palace…. Sort of."

Greg just looked about the room. Slowly it began to make sense. Each drawing was a different room. The way each drawing was placed represented how Sherlock envisioned it. Greg did not look too closely at the images, again he felt like he was invading some personal space. He whistled, "Palace. You have a palace in your head."

Sherlock nodded and gestured, "You can look around, if you want, the images probably won't make much sense to you."

Sherlock had done that intentionally, though, more because he figured Mycroft would look at them than out of some fear of some stranger seeing them. Greg took the young man up on his offer. Greg had taken a bit of psychology as part of his training and more psychology was introduced as he learned interrogation techniques and the like. Nothing prepared him for this.

The inspector started with the ceiling, since that only had a two pictures attached to it. He looked over the images, then back at Sherlock. It could not be as simple as representing heaven. Though it was certainly the sky. The colours used were soothing and inviting and the images gave a sense of protecting the palace. The palace was Sherlock, so the placement was outside of Sherlock. People he felt close to, then. His brother and… mother perhaps? Greg did not know enough to know for sure, but those were the images that came to his own mind.

The next area with the fewest pictures was the floor. These pictures were dark and foreboding, like a dungeon or gaol cell. Greg looked from the foreboding pictures back to the protective pictures on the ceiling and spoke, "They're empty."

Sherlock was shocked. The photos on the floor were anything but empty, at least he had not intended them to be, "I-is it that obvious."

Lestrade was drawn from his thoughts, "No. I mean, well maybe. Just… if you compare the images on the floor to those of the ceiling, they're lacking something."

Sherlock nodded, "How much has my brother told you?"

The older man shrugged, "Mostly that your mind had turned on itself."

Sherlock nodded, "I keep things in the basement that I can't delete, but it's really better if they're not kept with other memories in the palace."

Greg nodded as he listened to Sherlock. He processed the information, but Sherlock could tell that he still did not understand what he was seeing, so helped him along, "This is my Mind Palace as it stands right now."

Greg looked around, "If you store things there, then why is it… I see."

Sherlock looked hopeful, "Do you?"

Greg nodded, "It's empty because they escaped? Mycroft mentioned something about worst memories chasing you."

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. Greg continued to look at the photos on the floor. One of them stood out to him. It was the crime scene where he had found Sherlock, only there were blank spaces. It's not like the images were forgotten, they were left out, leaving a white space on the photo. It was as if the images had somehow escaped the drawing. Lestrade knelt down next to the picture to get a better look. The colours were not accurate for what was around them that night, but they did reveal the feelings, the undercurrent. There were things presented in the image that Lestrade had missed in his concern for Sherlock. He looked back to Sherlock again, "This is how you see things, isn't it?"

Sherlock nodded, but did not say anything. Sherlock was actually surprised the good inspector understood anything. Lestrade felt bold enough to pick up the drawing and look at it more closely. "He was shot, and these tire tracks – they were from the getaway car." The realization suddenly hit Lestrade, "They were trying to shoot you."

Sherlock nodded again, while swallowing audibly, "His name was Bat. Well, that's what everyone called him, anyway. I've known him for nearly four years. He understood the streets better than most people. He… idolized me."

With that Sherlock chocked and broke off. Things started to make sense to Lestrade. The boy – Bat – Sherlock cared for him in a way that was almost parental. And yet, judging by how Mycroft described things, Sherlock had not had much parenting himself. No wonder the death had affected him so deeply. Greg took in the rest of the pictorial representations of Sherlock's Mind Palace. It took probably two hours to get through all the pictures. There were probably close a hundred. When he was done, he backed away from them, standing in the centre of the room with Sherlock.

"It didn't take as long as you think," the young man answered Lestrade's unasked question. Greg was too shocked to reply to that. Sherlock sighed, "Clearly that was the question on your mind as your brain calculated the number of pictures and the amount of time it has been since you left. And of course, 'How did I know that?' was your second question."

Lestrade nodded mutely. He decided to try to catch Sherlock off-guard, "You know who killed him, then? Your friend? Bat?"

Sherlock did look surprised for a moment, but just as quickly the look disappeared behind a mask, "I don't have friends. And, unfortunately, no."

"Why would they try to kill you?"

"Retaliation. Jealousy. One less enemy. Take your pick."

Lestrade looked over the pictures again, "And a genius. This… this is your mind."

Sherlock shook his head, "My Mind Palace. It's how I store information in my mind."

Greg quirked a smile, "'S brilliant."

Sherlock shrugged, "Mycroft is better at it. I get too caught up in transport."

A raised eyebrow came with the reply, "Transport?"

"Eating, drinking, sleeping."

Well, that really was not what Sherlock's problem was. He could control those things. It was when he went into sensory overload that he had problems. Lestrade thought he understood, though, "Everything that's transport for your brain, then?"

Sherlock smiled and nodded. It was genuine and Lestrade knew it. Whatever it was about Sherlock and Mycroft that Lestrade had stumbled into – it was clear that he understood something that very few people did. He took in the bed again and noticed a picture sitting by itself, "Why isn't that one hanging with the others…."

Greg broke off; he had enough psychology to know what the picture was. He gasped softly as he took in the images. He met Sherlock's eyes, more to ask permission to look at it more closely than anything. Sherlock nodded.

It was a collage of images. But they were heart-breaking by comparison. There was a picture of a house – well, mansion would be a better description. Only, it was in shambles. Furniture had been thrown through windows, the roof was caved in and even the flowers surrounding the structure were wilted. Sitting in the paved rode was the image of a man. He was smoking as he looked over the building. As Lestrade looked closer he saw something was in the man's arm. He looked up and met Sherlock's eyes, knowing he would not have to voice the question.

Sherlock shrugged in reply, "It's the only way I can deal with it… when things get…"

He tapered off. He did not have to say more; Greg knew what he meant. Or at least Greg thought he did. He had worked for the Drugs Squad, so he understood how these things worked. He did not approve, but he understood.

Lestrade was not sure why Mycroft got him involved in their lives in this manner. But, from all the images surrounding him, it was clear that Sherlock needed help. He looked at the collage again, "How long since your last hit?"

Sherlock grimaced slightly as he looked at the clock, "37 hours, 12 minutes."

Lestrade nodded, "Any withdrawal symptoms yet?"

Sherlock gestured to the room around them. Lestrade sighed, "Right. Stupid question."

Sherlock shook his head, "Cocaine, so not as stupid a question as you might think."

Lestrade looked around, "Morphine?"

Sherlock shrugged, "Not often. I'm not an addict."

Greg snorted at first, but the took in Sherlock's serious expression. He crossed his arms and his expression also turned serious, "Okay, gi'me."

Sherlock sighed as if he is the one being inconvenienced, "Look, I'm not an addict. Cocaine slows my brain down enough to function the way everyone else's does for a brief time. I need that level of simplicity sometimes."

A sly expression crosses Lestrade's face, "So, you're an addict who understands his addiction." He gives a slight nod before continuing, "Come on. It's my day off, but no one else is gonna care about a homeless kid gunned down and I can tell it's bothering you."

Sherlock hesitated at first. He was afraid that visiting the scene would trigger what had happened earlier. However it was easier in the dusk. Not as easy as it would be in daylight. But, easier than it would have been in the dark. They spent ten minutes in the crime scene. By the end, Sherlock not only recreated the scene, but also told Lestrade everything he would need to know to make the arrest. When they finished, he offered to drive Sherlock back to his brother's flat.

Sherlock shook his head, "I need to tell them… about Bat."

Greg nodded, "Will you be all right?"

Sherlock shrugged, "Eventually."

"Will I see you again?"

Sherlock quirked a small smile, "Undoubtedly, Inspector."

With that Sherlock turned and faded into the dark corners of the alley.


	23. Chapter 23

**Apologies for the great delay. Things turned rather insanely busy at work. During the summer, I was writing my fics while at work. That said, this was a difficult chapter because there isn't a lot of talking to try to move the story into the bits that are more interesting for me to write. I am not abandoning this (or any of my other works), but when I'm mentally entertained in other ways, I don't need to write fics to keep myself from shooting smiley faces in my walls :)**

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"_Are you sure tonight's a 'Danger Night?'"_

Greg Lestrade did see Sherlock again. Oddly to him, Sherlock would appear at the crime scenes which he needed assistance. It was always at the end, when they were getting ready to leave. Sherlock would offer a phrase or two that would undoubtedly lead to a major breakthrough in the case. He was glad to see the young man. Although Mycroft Holmes had a great deal of power, Lestrade questioned if the man ever looked in on his brother with his own eyes. So, Sherlock helped Greg with cases and, in his own way, Greg kept an eye on the young man. It became difficult, though. After all, Greg was watching as the drugs were obviously pulling Sherlock deeper into their hold.

It seemed to Mycroft that the death of this lone homeless person was a bit of a breaking point for Sherlock. Not that the two brothers got along that well, but until this point, he figured that Sherlock had his "Not Addiction" fairly well under control. Now, it seemed that Sherlock was succumbing to the addictive side of drugs. Mycroft was less than pleased, but he knew there was little he could do about it. His only reassurance came in the form of one DI Greg Lestrade. He knew the officer was keeping an eye on his brother, or at the very least their paths crossed on occasion.

It is not that Sherlock had no concept of how far he was falling; rather he did not care. Ever since he could not save Bat, he felt like nothing was worth it. He did what he could to invite death – everything short of taking actions against his own life or actions that would harm the Homeless Network, as he was already calling them. But that changed one night.

Lucy had been part of the Network, but Sherlock had helped her to get back on her feet. She now had a decent job was able to afford housing and the job had a great deal of travel associated with it. Though she knew he would never accept any proper repayment, she was letting him "house-sit" her new place for a couple months while she was in the States attending some international training sessions. She was even providing an additional living stipend for him to care for her place. The only caveat was: no drugs. He agreed, because he thought he could stay clean for the duration of her absence. After all, cocaine is a straight chemical addiction, not a physical addiction like other drugs.

Sherlock knew that cocaine simply binds itself to the dopamine proteins in the brain, so he thought if he sustained the dopamine levels in other ways he would be okay. He used cigarettes and dark chocolate. He was about three weeks into his stay when the depression hit full stop. He had misjudged his ability to fight against it. It was then that he realized why he had never stopped cold before: the depression was not worth it. He left Lucy's flat in search of a hit, because nothing was helping. If he were to be completely strict with Lucy's rules, she had said, "No drugs in the flat." Well, if he did the drugs in an alley, they would never be in her flat.

Sherlock first made his way back to his cubby. Actually, that description would be generous. A building had been renovated and there was a nice gap between the original wall and the new wall. There was just enough room for him to crawl in and turn around. It was long and narrow, but not very tall. Still, it was shelter from the elements and no one else seemed to know it existed. From there he retrieved a small cloth pouch and left again.

The pouch looked like it at one time held various precious tools. In fact, that is what it had been before Sherlock found it and "liberated" it for other uses. Now, it held all the drug paraphernalia he used, including several clean needles, which he would also "liberate" from various places. As with any of his experiments, Sherlock was meticulous about using clean needles on himself. He smiled wryly at that thought, but decided that he did not wish to die from some long-term illness, so he was okay with not inviting that form of death to his door.

Now that he had his supplies, he just needed some drugs. He could not go to his usual places. Enough of the Homeless Network frequented those places that he would be recognized immediately. Still, he knew the streets well enough to know where to go. It was a shadier part of town than he had been in recently, but it would suffice. He knew Marcus had a decent enough reputation; at least his drugs were of good quality.

Sherlock made the deal, took the stash and started to make his way back to Lucy's area of town. A part of him felt calmer, just for having the drugs around. Maybe he would not need them. Maybe just having them as a security blanket would be enough. He found a loose brick near the base of her complex and stored the drugs and his tools there. Then he made his way back up to Lucy's flat. He lasted another three hours, before it simply became too much.

Sherlock made his way back to where he had hidden the drugs. Then he slunk further into the darkness of the alley. He took out an antiseptic wipe, prepared the area in the crook of his elbow and tied the rubber tourniquet on his arm. Then he prepared his syringe. Through recent trial, he had discovered that the vein popped better if he tied the tourniquet before getting the syringe ready. He filled the syringe with more than he normally would. He just felt like he needed a solid it. If he got one, then hopefully he would not need another until after Lucy returned.

It was not until the high of the cocaine began to wear off, that he realized that something was wrong. Very wrong. What he had not counted on, what he did not know, since this was purchased from a lesser-known dealer, was that it was a cocktail drug. Commonly known as a speedball: a stimulant combined with a depressant. The affects though; once Sherlock realized what was happening, he just rode the wave. It was… glorious. God, he would have to do this again! Nothing hurt, everything was just as it should be. And for once he was calm.

The Speedball was highly addicting for Sherlock. Not just for the drug properties, but for the element of danger that was presented. If Sherlock mixed the cocaine and the depressant (currently he was using morphine, since he understood its properties better than heroine) incorrectly, there was the likelihood that death would happen. He knew of this potential and so had avoided speedballs up to this point. But, God, what he had been missing! Now, he could run all sorts of experiments to get the dosing just right – the greatest effects from each drug for his body.

Sherlock kept his promise to Lucy; there were no drugs in her flat – ever. However, that did not stop him from continuing down the path the Speedballs offered him. When Lucy returned to her flat, Sherlock returned to the streets and his cubby in the renovated building. He found the streets oddly comforting – at least he was always entertained. Once he had said his farewells to Lucy, no one he knew saw him for two months.

Sherlock was skilled at avoiding the CCTV and he had stopped going to crime scenes. Not even the thrill of the game offered him the excitement that of the Speedball. Sherlock could no longer claim he was not an addict. Now, he truly was one. Everything around him suffered for it. The centre of his world went from being his mind to being Speedballs. Even the great power of his mind was dedicated to making the affects of the speedball last loner without being anymore detrimental to his health. Or so he thought.

DI Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes exchanged messages every so often. While each man thought it odd that the other had not heard nor seen Sherlock recently, there was little either man could do. Both men knew that if Sherlock did not want to be found, no one would find him. When a few weeks suddenly became several months, both men were greatly concerned. Lestrade would use the opportunities afforded to him at crime scenes to explore various areas of the city and Mycroft had increased the surveillance level on his brother to Grade Four. It was typically a level reserved for the Royalty when they were making public appearances in London, but Mycroft did not care. He needed to locate his brother and soon.

* * *

Mycroft's team came across Sherlock before the Inspector's team did. When Mycroft received word about Sherlock's location, he told his people to only keep an eye on Sherlock and he would address the situation himself. It was mid-December, so even though it was only six o'clock, it was already completely dark out.

Mycroft contacted his Personal Assistant and requested a driver be ready for him in five minutes. Then, he made the unusual move and changed into pressed jeans, a less dressy button down shirt and a fitted sweater. He was afraid of what he would find, but he was certain that his three-piece suit would not survive the night. He hoped he would. Once Mycroft was in the back of the car, he was in constant with the team keeping an eye on Sherlock. From their descriptions, he was certain he would require additional support. He contacted Greg Lestrade with instructions to meet him at his home in Pall Mall.

The driver stopped the car at the entrance to an alleyway and gave a nod to the Elder Holmes. Mycroft got out and looked around for members of his team. They pointed a direction for him to proceed. What Mycroft found… deplorable would be kind. The raunchy smell that met his nostrils as he made his way into the alley turned his stomach. He forced himself to breathe through his mouth as the smell got worse the farther into the alley he moved.

One of Mycroft's men pointed out a small hole in the side of the building. It was from there that the stench was ebbing. Mycroft steeled his stomach. The smell was so horrible he thought his brother must have died. He accepted a torch from the man and pointed it into the cubby. It was clear that Sherlock had been lying there for days at least. He clearly had not shaved in months and his hair was a giant knotted mess. The smell… Sherlock was lying in his own excrement. In fact, it covered the floor and blankets of the place. There were track marks up and down both arms and it looked like several of the punctures had become infected – probably from the waste surrounding him.

Mycroft sighed heavily, "Brother, mine, what have you done?" He debated what he should do. There was not enough room to reach in and do anything with his brother, but he could not leave him there either. He called out to those around him, "Medical supplies. Now!" There was no way he could tell at this point if his brother was alive or dead, but judging by the little bit of foam sliding out of his mouth, Mycroft was not holding out much hope. He was offered a cover gown and some gloves. As he was putting the gloves on one of the men was putting covers over his shoes and another put a mask over his face.

Once Mycroft was dressed appropriately, he slowly and carefully made his way into the cubby. A part of him terrified to learn if Sherlock was dead or alive. If dead, it would mean that he died in disgrace and in hideous conditions. If alive, getting him out, getting him clean and sober, the debate over whether to hospitalize him or not would all need to be addressed.

Mycroft reached out to touch his brother's neck with two fingers, looking for the carotid artery. The neck was warmish. To say it was warm would be to say obvious signs of life were present. Mycroft struggled to force his own racing heart to quiet down long enough to see if there was any pulse in Sherlock.


	24. Chapter 24

**I couldn't be cruel and leave that hanging for too long. Also, Chapter 23 would have been ginormous if I had left them together.**

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"_This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?_"

That was when he heard it – a faint breath, not quite a gasp. And then he felt it – a heartbeat it was faint and clearly slow. He cried out to the men outside "He's alive!"

At that, the men, who had been changing into medical suits while Mycroft checked on his brother, rushed in and began the work to extract the younger Holmes. It was an arduous task and took nearly twenty minutes. The men kept asking Mycroft if they should call an ambulance. Mycroft shook his head, "Prepare my car, we will take him to my house."

The men looked concerned but did as they were told. Once there was a plastic sheet draped all over the back seat and Sherlock was bundled into his own tarpaulin sheet, he was manoeuvred onto the seat. Mycroft sat on the hump that separated the two foot-wells. He simply stared at his brother for a long time. His hands pressed together – almost in prayer, his lips touching his index fingers and his middle fingers brushing his nose. The ride took far too long. The only comfort Mycroft received was the slight movement of Sherlock's chest as he breathed. But it was not much and not nearly often enough.

Greg Lestrade was standing at the door when the car pulled up. He rushed to the opening backdoor to aid when it stopped. He had to pause, though – the smell was so strong that he nearly vomited right there on the sidewalk. Mycroft's stressed voice came from inside, "Don't just stand there, help me!"

Within moments, there were men surrounding them, one helping Mycroft to exit and another four who were taking one corner each of the tarp to carry Sherlock into the house. Mycroft was barking concerned orders, "There's a large shower in the basement. We'll take him down there to clean him up first. Lestrade, go and get the water started, so that it is warm, but not hot by the time we get down there."

"Right," replied Lestrade as he left to find his way to the shower. Large was an understatement. It was large enough to lay Sherlock out completely. The showerhead was on a long hose, which would be perfect for this task. As the water was heating, Lestrade found himself some swimming trunks in the adjoining room. He changed; no way he was going to let those strangers take care of Sherlock in that condition. He was fond of the lad already.

He thought perhaps some of that was the fear of how he would react if he ever caught his own children in this situation. He would hope he would be as willing to help as he was now. Maybe this was practice. No, it was more than that. Sherlock…. Well, Greg did not know for sure, but he wondered if the boy had ever really had a sense of family. For some reason, Greg felt compelled to offer something of that to him. Fleetingly, he wondered why Mycroft did not take him to hospital, but he had spent enough time with the Holmes brothers that he figured the man had his reasons.

The men carrying the tarpaulin sheet containing one Sherlock Holmes entered the area. Greg took the shower hose in his hand and instructed them to deposit sheet and all into the shower. Mycroft looked – Greg was not sure how to name the expression. He turned his attention to Sherlock, but spoke to Mycroft, "Go and change into a swimsuit and bring soap and shampoo with you when you return." He paused looking over Sherlock again, "Better bring a razor and scissors as well."

Mycroft nodded mutely and slowly left. Greg sighed and carefully started to strip Sherlock, he did not get very far. Sherlock was tall and lanky, but with him being barely alive, his dead weight was too much to move by himself. A few minutes later, Mycroft returned and looked at Greg with eyes that were almost despondent. Greg nodded and gestured for Mycroft to enter, even with the three of them in the shower, there was still enough room for them to move around. Not much was spoken, other than Greg giving Mycroft directions for moving Sherlock's body so they could get him stripped.

For modesty's sake, Mycroft wanted to leave Sherlock's pants on, but Greg shook his head, "Everything is filthy, so it all has to go. Besides, there's no other way to clean him properly." They left Sherlock on the tarp. Mostly to protect his body from the tile floor, then he pointed to the soap and shampoo. Mycroft took the soap and started to wash Sherlock's limbs and Lestrade took the shampoo and started with Sherlock's hair.

The smell in the confined place was almost too much for the men, but as the soap and water started to do their jobs, the smell started to dissipate. Lestrade focused on Sherlock's hair – both the hair on his head and his face. He sighed heavily as the matted mess upon Sherlock's head just would not get clean. He took the scissors in his hands, "Sorry, Sherlock, I tried to save it. No other way now."

He slowly clipped the hair off. He was going to leave some length to it, but then he saw the infected sores that were all over Sherlock's head, maggots were starting to nest in them as well and he knew the hair had to go completely to let the wounds heal. Greg picked up the razor and very slowly, as gently as he could, started to shave Sherlock's head bare. Then he did the same with his face.

Mycroft was busy taking care of the rest of Sherlock's body, scrubbing it with a small bath brush as well as the soap. The entire process took nearly an hour, including turning Sherlock over to do the back of him. Greg had to pause in his part once when Sherlock started to have very weak dry heaves. Still, that was good, Sherlock was on his stomach, so there was no way for him to asphyxiate on his vomit, if anything came up. It was bad, because it reminded Lestrade how incredibly weak he was.

When they were done, they rotated Sherlock to remove the tarp – everything would have to be thrown out. Then, Mycroft left to get towels. He paused as he was exiting the shower and noticed that all of the hair on Sherlock's head was gone. Mycroft gasped slightly, "You shaved it all."

Greg nodded, "It was too tangled, there was no way to save it."

Mycroft swallowed thickly, "He didn't have much hair when he was born. Then he lost it all as some babies do… but it took about nine months for it to grow back."

Greg thought about his own children and did not want to know what must be going through Mycroft's head at that moment. He spoke softly, "Go get some towels and clothes, I'll stay with 'im."

Mycroft nodded again and left. Greg took the few minutes to talk to Sherlock, "I don't know what got into your head. But this was a terrible idea. Don't you know people care about you?" Greg paused and realised that perhaps Sherlock did not know. He continued, "Well, I'm going to show you, even if it kills both of us."

Mycroft returned and they took the time to dry Sherlock completely before manoeuvring him into a pair of flannel sleep trousers and a short-sleeved pull over. While they were doing that, they placed him on the floor of the changing room, which was carpeted so at least would not be as cold. Then Mycroft left again to change into his silk pyjamas and brought a sweat suit for Lestrade. While Greg was changing, Mycroft dressed what wounds he could and cleaned the rest with peroxide and alcohol. Then he took his turn to speak, "Well, brother dear, I hope you're pleased with yourself. Though, knowing you, you will see this as a failure of some form. If you _ever_ do this again, I'll let you rot!"

Lestrade had returned just in time to hear the last bit. He could not help but snort, "You'll do no such thing. No matter how much you two show it to the rest of the world, I've seen you care for each other."

Mycroft huffed, "We should get him into bed."

Lestrade nodded and they began the tedious task of getting Sherlock to the guest room that was on this level. Luckily, they did not have to take him up any stairs. Once they had Sherlock situated, Lestrade seemed uncomfortable. Mycroft nodded, "Thank you for your assistance. You can go, but I would greatly appreciate if you could take some time off work to help me until he is recovered."

Lestrade just stared at Mycroft. He tried to object, but when he looked at the dejected body of one Sherlock Holmes, the fight left him. "Okay, but I want to be able to see my family, since this will take a bit more time."

Mycroft nodded, "You will be well compensated for your efforts."

Lestrade wasn't sure what to make of that, but he gave a nod and left to return home.


	25. Chapter 25

**Shorter chapter this time, I apologize, but I think that's because the next chapter will be quite long. (Maybe, hard to say - Sherlock is really fighting me on revealing this part of his past.)  
**

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**CHAPTER 25:**

"_Bad news for brainwork."_

There was not much for Greg to do that first day, so Mycroft had called him and told him he was not needed yet. Sherlock was lingering much closer to death than Mycroft wished. Yet, he knew better than to take Sherlock to hospital without permission. Nothing was worth the damage it would cause to their relationship, not even Sherlock getting clean. Knowing Imogene's feelings on the matter, he sent her back to the Holmes' main estate to prepare things. Mycroft was stable enough in his position and with technology being what it was, he took time away from the office to help his brother's recovery. Any important meetings, he could attend through the Internet, while not ideal, it would suffice.

Mycroft had his assistant obtain various medical supplies and had them brought to his house. Mycroft had recently completed some medical training. It was not anything too in-depth, but he knew how to start intravenous fluids, draw blood, administer shots and other basic nursing skills. He never thought that the first time he would put the new skillset to work would be on his own brother.

Sherlock looked ghastly. The lack of hair and the bandages on his head made him look like Frankenstein's monster. Mycroft checked his watch. He had his team analyse what was in the syringes in Sherlock's cubby only to find out Sherlock had been speedballing. Cocaine was used as the stimulant in all their samples, but the depressant switched between morphine and heroine. Mycroft checked his watch again; it would not be long before the physical withdrawal from the depressants started. Mycroft took Sherlock's vitals one more time, then forced himself to sleep in the chair, he doubted he would get any once the withdrawal set in.

Sherlock did not want the consciousness that was tugging at him. He thought he had taken enough of the drugs to put an end to the terrible – everything – that his life had become. He felt like a failure knowing that he was unsuccessful. Waking up would only prove that he was still able to fee- experience everything. He could not force himself to sleep, though. His whole body started to itch. Actually, that's not quite true. It felt bugs were flowing through his veins instead of blood. He tried to move scratch the feeling away, but his limbs felt like they were weighed down with concrete.

It was not concrete weighing Sherlock down; it was the weight of the blanket. When Sherlock started to shudder, Mycroft glanced over at him. Sherlock did not appear to be cold but he was shaking and appeared to be trying to ease some discomfort. Mycroft had done some research on detoxing since the last time he had tried to help Sherlock through this, so he was more familiar with the symptoms. He leaned forward whispered softly, "You're safe, Sherlock. Calm down." Then he gently rested his hand on his brother's arm.

In his haze, Sherlock heard a voice that sounded almost concerned. But then, he felt pressure on his arm and it burned like fire. He tried to move away from it, tried to shake it off, anything that would stop the burning, but nothing did. He called out, "STOP!"

Mycroft noticed that Sherlock was becoming more agitated and he started to mumble, there was a feeble moan that escaped his lips. Mycroft sighed and removed his hand. Moments later, he noticed Sherlock relax considerably. He stood and walked to the en suite. He had a small bowl and flannel waiting there. He filled the bowl with lukewarm water and then returned to his brother. He soaked the cloth then gently placed it on Sherlock's head. And waited for the next phase to set in.

Greg Lestrade returned after supper even though Mycroft had told him to stay away. He was glad he did. One look at Mycroft told him that the man needed a break. The trouble was how to get him to leave, "You look like hell, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft huffed slightly, "Mycroft, please. I think after yesterday, you've earned it."

Lestrade nods. "Okay, _Mycroft_. Go and rest, you're no good to him driving yourself into the ground like this."

Mycroft sighed heavily, "Are you sure…" he took a look at Greg and new the inspector could handle things, "Very well. Let me know if you need anything?"

Greg nodded, "I've been around addicts enough – some of them detoxing in gaol. _And_ I'm not family. I'm more prepared than you are."

For a brief flash, Mycroft looked stunned at the way Lestrade spoke to him. People simply did not speak to Mycroft in that way. But, the feeling passed quickly and instead, he nodded and made his way out of the room to take a break.

Before Mycroft closed the door, Greg stopped him, "I'm going to lock the door. Under no circumstances are you to come in here unless I text you. Understand?"

Again, there was a flash of… something in Mycroft's expression, but he offered his assent, "I am putting my brother's life in your hands, then, Inspector. It would be best to not let me down."

With that warning, Mycroft left. Greg nervously rubbed the back of his neck. He was certain that if he failed, Mycroft would not kill him – that would be too forgiving. However, he was relieved when Mycroft left. He had seen the kind of detox that Sherlock was about to go through and it was not anything that a family member should experience. He locked the door and prepared himself for what as going to be a very long night.


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: I originally thought this chapter would be longer – the muses disagreed. Warnings for medical discussions and withdrawal symptoms.**

* * *

"_They're not strictly speaking on the drug squad, but they're very keen."_

While Sherlock was sleeping, Greg Lestrade started to gather all the supplies he would need. First, he checked the loo to make sure there were plenty of towels and flannels as well as soap. Satisfied with that he checked the rubbish bin. Luckily it was plastic and empty. That would serve for when the vomiting set in and there was another in the bedroom that he could use for waste. Ideally, he would need several sets of bed clothes and a large bin liner to place the soiled items, more towels and flannels would be good too, finally food and drink: crackers, bread, tea, water. The food was not about sustenance; the IVs would take care of that. It was about having something in Sherlock's stomach when the vomiting set in. The cramps were always more manageable, when there was something in the stomach.

He sent a text to Mycroft. Ten minutes later, Mycroft knocked on the door, after he set the items down and he walked away, as Lestrade had instructed him. Greg gave Mycroft a few minutes to leave before unlocking the door, opening it and collecting the items on the other side. Then he quickly closed the door and locked it again. Feeling like he had all the necessary supplies, he set about getting organized so that everything would be in fairly easy reach for him.

In the end, Greg did not need to rush his preparations. The first round of hot flashes lasted longer than he expected – approximately a couple hours, with little other side effects. Sherlock was too weak to be moved to the loo, so Greg made warm and cool compresses using wet washcloths. During this time, it was clear how uncomfortable Sherlock was: he seemed asleep, but was very active moving his legs around. Greg did what he could to make sure that Sherlock did not roll out of bed – or in other ways hurt himself.

Lestrade did what he could to keep the lad comfortable. He thought by now that he would be used to it. There were times, as a constable, that he had helped inmates deal with various aspects of withdrawal. However if they were bad enough, he always had them sent to hospital. That was not an option this time. He hoped to find out why at some point.

Lestrade was able to get Sherlock to eat some crackers and drink some tea, but he was still pretty well out of it – conversation was not going to happen at this point. He eased Sherlock back down and tried to make him comfortable. Sherlock seemed to slip into a state of dozing.

About twenty minutes later, Sherlock woke again. He slowly blinked his eyes and softly moaned. Lestrade smiled, "Decided to join the land of the living?" Sherlock winced at the sound, but opened his eyes anyway. The vision before him was hazy and somehow – wrong. The bed was comfortable, but that was… the detective, so he should be in jail or dead. He swallowed thickly, "Where am I?"

"Your brother's house," Lestrade answered, "You're lucky to be alive."

Sherlock scoffed, which led to coughing. When it subsided, he sighed and slurred his reply, "You're presuming I wanted t'live."

Greg kept his features neutral, "Bright lad like you? Why wouldn't you want to?"

A dark glare answered the question. Greg sighed heavily, "Bat."

Sherlock nodded and remained silent for a few minutes. Finally, his soft and gravely voice broke the silence, "He saved my life."

Lestrade stared at the young man for a long time, "And to thank him, you what? Decided to join him?" He sighed heavily, "Sherlock… I doubt that's what he would have wanted."

The dark looked returned. Oddly, it was fairly effective, even through the bandages and baldness. "How would you know," it was a statement, not a question.

Greg sat on the edge of the bed, "You think I don't know anything about how the homeless work? When I was on the beat, I had my contacts. They don't like me much now – I've gotten too high of a rank and I can't protect them like I could back then."

Sherlock was staring off at some point in the distance, Lestrade could not tell if Sherlock was listening or not. "My point is," he continued, "Is that I know sometimes these people become family to each other."

Sherlock shrugged, then reached up to scratch something on his head. He felt bandages and a distinctive lack of hair. The glare returned, "Mirror."

Lestrade shook his head, "I don't think you're ready for that yet."

"Mirror!"

Knowing there would be more battles to come and this one was not worth fighting, Lestrade found a hand mirror and presented it to Sherlock. He watched the young man carefully, unsure what to expect as a reaction. Lestrade had to strain his ears when Sherlock finally spoke, "You… it's all gone."

Lestrade nodded, "You were found, nearly dead, covered from head to toe in your own excrement. There was a nasty cut on your head and maggots had already started to infest it."

Sherlock shrugged at the news, "Maggots, like leaches, have their medicinal purposes. They eat out the dead tissue allowing clean tissue to grow."

Lestrade shook his head, "In the living, Sherlock and with a doctor to take them out when they've done their job." He paused letting that sink in before he continued, "Your brother and I scrubbed you head to toe, but there was no way to treat your wounds and get you properly cleaned with that mass of hair you had."

At that comment, Sherlock rolled onto his side and huffed. That movement told Lestrade everything he needed to know – the conversation was over in Sherlock's mind. Greg did not want Sherlock to be caught off-guard. He knew things were about to turn rather unpleasant for the man in the bed, so he cleared his throat, "Sherlock, it's going to be a rough few days for you ahead. And I just want you to know that whatever happens, I got you best interest in mind, all right?"

Sherlock's reply was soft, "I've been through withdrawal before, Inspector."

Greg nodded, "Yeah, but not after nearly dying."

Sherlock snorted, "No, because the 'nearly dying' came afterwards last time."

That was not what Greg expected to hear. He sits there for a time and just lets the idea hang in the air. Sherlock turned back to face the Inspector, "It's a well-known fact that depression is a side-effect of cocaine withdrawal."

Greg nodded, "Your brother and I will do what we can to keep you out of hospital, but I can't promise that if you get too bad that we won't take you. If you die, then you die with people fighting for you – even if you won't fight for yourself."

That got Sherlock's attention. He actually met Greg's eyes this time, "Why?"

The tone was genuine curiosity. It was almost as if the lad could not comprehend anyone would want to fight for him, let alone go through with it. Greg shifted uncomfortably, "Sherlock, you're clearly used to people not liking you. I get that. But, let me tell you this: I will do everything in my power to help you. I think you got a lot to offer our society, you just need to be given the chance."

Sherlock just stared at the inspector for a long time. Then he said, "I'm going to be sick."

Greg rolled his eyes, "A little bit of my showing affection isn't going to make you sick, Sherlock."

Sherlock started to turn a shade of green and said, "Bin. Now!"

Lestrade wasted no time handing the bin to Sherlock as he started to empty what little was in his stomach.


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: Continued warning for withdrawal symptoms, etc. Also, I've never been through this, and I've never known anyone to go through it. Oddly, I couldn't find a website listing the precise progression of withdrawal symptoms, so lets go with the notion that every body reacts differently. If you have experience and I get anything horribly wrong, please let me know.**

* * *

"_Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse."_

The first round of heaving lasted twenty stressful minutes. Every time Sherlock thought he was done, he would take a breath, but when he exhaled, he would begin vomiting again. While this was going on, Greg had gotten two bowls of water – one warm and one cool, and three flannels. Greg would alternate between using the warm and cool cloths on Sherlock as the hot flashes from being ill continued. He draped them across the back of Sherlock's neck or ran them across his brow. As Sherlock finally finished, Lestrade took the third flannel, moistened it and wiped Sherlock's face and chin. He reached over for the glass of water still on the bedside table and handed it to Sherlock while instructing, "Swish and spit, don't swallow."

"I know how this goes, Inspector," came a terse reply.

Greg waited until Sherlock was done, then helped him to settle back into the bed. He took the bowls and flannels away and finally took the bin to rinse out. When he returned to the bed, Sherlock was still moaning softly from the cramps that plagued him. There was not much either could do but wait it out.

After another five minutes, the contractions seemed to subside and Sherlock sighed deeply. He was completely worn out already and things had just begun. Greg sat on the edge of the bed, "You need to drink some water now."

Sherlock shook his head. He was too tired to even think about it. Greg picked up the glass, "Come on. I'll help you."

He slid his hand under Sherlock's head to lift it a little ways off the pillow. He held the glass to Sherlock's lips. "You've gotta stay hydrated since you don't wanna go to hospital."

Sherlock took a few sips then gasped and did what he could to escape drinking more. Lestrade helped Sherlock to lie back down then pulled the sheet up to Sherlock's shoulders. A few minutes later, Sherlock's breathing evened out in exhausted sleep. Greg pulled out a notebook and started to write notes. He had not done a lot of medical documentation, but since Sherlock was refusing medical treatment, he thought it would be a good idea, in case an emergency arose.

Sherlock rested for about forty minutes before the next round began. It was sudden and violent. This time only lasting ten minutes, but the intensity was every exhausting to Sherlock. While that was going on, Lestrade had started to draw a bath. If nothing else, the heat should help to relax Sherlock's muscles. Sherlock protested, but Lestrade remained firm, "I need to change your sheets and clothes anyway. This way, maybe you can relax for a bit."

Sherlock finally nodded and let Lestrade put him in the bath. Greg then went about changing the sheets and setting out new pyjamas for Sherlock. Once all that was done, Greg helped Sherlock to wash and took special care with cleaning the head wound. He knew how badly the sweat could irritate wounds if left unclean. He then helped Sherlock out, dried and dressed him. Before he could move Sherlock back to bed, another round of heaving happened. This time, Greg had no way to measure it, since Sherlock was sick in the toilet. Once Sherlock was done, Greg knew it would be safe enough to manoeuvre him into bed. Greg again forced Sherlock to drink some fluids, he tried to get him to eat something, but Sherlock would have none of that.

The next thirty-six hours passed in a similar fashion. At first, Sherlock's episodes of getting ill cycled every forty minutes, Lestrade could practically set his watch to it. They slowly lengthened to being several hours apart, which meant both he and Sherlock could get some rest. He did what he could to keep Sherlock comfortable, though comfortable was a relative term. Sherlock would mumble comments and complaints, wondering how it was even possible for the human stomach to produce so much, when little or nothing had even been ingested.

Sherlock then slept. He slept for nearly twelve hours straight. He woke only when Lestrade roused him to try to get fluids into him. Lestrade himself tried to get some sleep and after about six hours decided to get up and check on the other Holmes brother. He made his way out of Sherlock's room and down to the kitchen. He was somewhat surprised to see Mycroft sitting at the table and working on his laptop. He stood there for nearly a minute in silence. Finally, he shifted into what he hoped was Mycroft's line of sight. Mycroft's lips twitched, "I can see you, detective. I need to get to a stopping point, if you could give me a few minutes, I'll be happy to prepare something for you to eat."

Mycroft's detachment never failed to impress Lestrade. He sometimes wondered if the Buda would also be impressed with it. Mycroft fished what he was working on, then closed his laptop and got up, starting to collect various items from around the kitchen. "I hope you enjoy breakfast items, it will be the fastest to prepare."

Greg sighed heavily, "I don't care. Anything is better than the dry foods I've been running on recently."

Mycroft continued with his preparations, "How is he?"

It was said so softly that Greg almost missed it. Greg watched Mycroft for several moments before answering, "Sleeping right now, it's been a rough couple of days. I expect the cravings to set in soon again."

He went quiet for a few minutes and Mycroft put an omelette and a fork in front of the inspector. Greg took a bite before saying more, "He's going to need help, Mycroft. More than either of us can provide."

Mycroft nodded, "I know, he just doesn't do well in those environments."

Greg thoughtfully ate his food, "He's a smart lad. It's possible that he'll see the need for help."

Mycroft just glared at Lestrade disbelievingly, "Sometimes his brilliance is what works against him. I'm not saying you are incorrect. Sherlock will probably need rehabilitation, but he is rather too intelligent for typical therapy to work."

Lestrade nodded in reply, "I think we have a few days before the worst is over. I've got some contacts through the yard, so I'll see what I can do."

Mycroft nodded, "Last time the depression was…"

Lestrade did not need Mycroft to finish that statement. He rubbed his temples for a minute, "We're not going to loose him. We're all too stubborn for that." He looked at the clock, "I should get back to him. Thanks for the food."

Mycroft just nodded and watched as Lestrade returned to Sherlock's room.


	28. Chapter 28

**CHAPTER 28:**

**A/N: Sorry this is so incredibly late, but I went to London for three weeks over the Holidays! What? I think that's a perfect excuse XD.  
**

* * *

"_Always been able to keep myself distant…"_

Throughout the rest of that week and into the next, Sherlock's physical symptoms dissipated. Lestrade stopped his twenty-four hour stay and Mycroft was allowed to watch over his brother as well. Many of Sherlock's wounds were in various states of the healing process, it was slow, but none seemed infected, which was good. Lestrade and Mycroft alternated their time with Sherlock – he was not allowed to be completely alone, but they allowed him out of the room to join the "Land of the Living." Imogene took up an offer to return and she spent a little time with Sherlock as well.

Just when Mycroft and Lestrade thought they were through the worst of the symptoms, Sherlock's behaviour shifted. Neither Lestrade nor Mycroft could list any one circumstance. It was not any one specific shift, but a gradual shift in many different ways that led them to realise that Sherlock was not "right."

Sherlock's hair had started to grow back and the stubble was quite annoying. It was all he could do to stop himself from scrubbing his scalp. Since the wounds had healed enough, he took to wearing a cap so that he would not tear the wounds by scratching too hard. He was not sleeping. He was far too concerned with what Lestrade and his brother had planned for him. Well, that and there was something he needed. Oh, he knew what was needed. The cravings are what had started him speedballing – using one drug to counter the effects of the other. And now… Now he had a desire for the drugs. However, those two were still watching him; to what end? Oh he knew, they wanted to control every aspect of his life until there was nothing left to him.

Lestrade had brought a couple of cold cases for Sherlock, in an attempt to distract him, but Sherlock just looked at him coldly, "You want me to do your work for you _again_?"

Lestrade's jaw dropped, "Eh, no. I thought you might do with the distraction."

"I don't need a distraction, Inspector. I'm quite fine on my own, thank you."

Lestrade shook his head in disbelief, "Okay. But, why don't I just leave them here anyway. You might get bored."

Sherlock scowled at him as he left, then huffed and threw himself into the couch. He did not need anyone and did not want anyone. He just wanted… all of this to stop.

Lestrade went to find Mycroft and once he did, he was very direct, "Something's wrong. He's refusing cases."

Mycroft was staring intently at his laptop getting things ready so he could leave now that Greg was here to relieve him. He held his hand up for silence, finished typing and then gave his attention to Greg, "Why should it surprise you? He's looking to be challenged."

Greg shook his head, "I think you're wrong. I've been on the Drugs Squad. We had some pretty intense training. This is part of the withdrawal that he's going though. If we're not careful he might…"

Greg did not finish the statement, but Mycroft knew how it would end. He nodded, "What do you suggest?"

Greg sighed heavily and ran a hand through is hair, "My professional opinion? A rehab facility. We're lucky he hasn't gotten paranoid yet – or he's hiding it well if he has."

Mycroft met Greg's eyes at that, "He'll never agree to it."

Greg shrugged, "With you as his next-of-kin, he doesn't have to…"

Mycroft frown, "Our relationship is already strained, this could destroy it completely."

Greg's expression shifted to one of compassion, "And if you don't do this, he will die." Lestrade rushed on before Mycroft could interrupt, "Yes, he _will_ die! Maybe not today or next week, but at some point, he's going to OD and there will be nothing anyone can do to save him. Cocaine addiction is as much physiological, as it is psychological and needs different treatment. We've gotten him this far and that's great, but he needs more help than we can offer."

Mycroft stared at Greg in silence for a long time, then he got up to leave without a word. Greg called after him, "Just think about it? Please…"

Mycroft did not acknowledge that Greg had spoken, but he would have to carefully consider Greg's words. He knew Greg was right; it was a matter of trying to convince Sherlock and then setting up the care.

Sherlock had overheard the conversation and decided to confront Greg about it, "So, finally decided to give up on me? You want to ship me off where I can be forgotten, left to decay like so many others?"

Greg stared at Sherlock for a few moments. He was not shocked at the questions, nor even that Sherlock had overheard them. However, the tone of betrayal and venom that was behind the words stung Greg in a way he had not expected. He supposed he had grown attached to the lad over the last few weeks. Finally, Greg swallowed thickly, "Look, Sherlock," He looked around and gestured to a couch, "Let's sit down and talk about this."

Sherlock's features morphed into a snarl, "I don't want to sit down. I want to know why you're talking about my treatment behind my back."

Greg sighed heavily and thought to himself, "_So the paranoia _had_ started_." He continued out loud, "Okay, you're right. That was my mistake. I won't insult your intelligence by telling you everything I told Mycroft, when it's clear you heard it already. Sit down and we can talk about it."

Sherlock shifted weight between his feet, clearly debating what to do. After a few long moments, he sat down. Greg breathed a sigh of relief and sat down next to him, "Look, I've seen this before. More times than I care to admit. And… I don't want to loose you. You are so close. Of all the addicts I've ever encountered, you _can_ overcome this. But you'll need help to do it and Mycroft and I don't have the training to help you any further."

Sherlock frowned, trying to think of all the ramifications of that statement, "And you think a rehab facility could handle _me_?"

Greg shrugged, "I honestly don't know. Tell you what…" He got up, left the room for a few minutes and returned with a laptop. He handed it to Sherlock, who offered a confused expression – which in the future Greg would learn to cherish for its rarity. "Look, I don't know how you and your brother normally do things, but you're too smart to have people going around your back. So, do some research, find a place you think you might like and I'll have Mycroft look into the possibilities of sending you there."

Sherlock took the computer but raised an eyebrow, "What's the catch?"

"No catch," was the immediate reply. Greg honestly wondered what had happened in Sherlock's life to make him question every good gesture that was offered him. "But, maybe if you get clean, I can call you in to help out on cases more regularly."

Sherlock opened the computer and started to run the search. His voice was hesitant, small, Lestrade thought even a bit scared, "What if I fail?"

"_That's the real issue, then_," Lestrade thought, "_He doesn't want to fail. No. He doesn't want to be seen as a failure._" He cleared his throat softly, "Well, we'll deal with that if it happens." He walked behind the couch Sherlock was sitting on and rested a hand on his shoulder, "But I believe in you. You just need the chance to do it your way – or at least have a say in what happens to you. I'll leave you to it." With that, Lestrade exited the room.

Sherlock sat there in silence, not looking at the computer screen for a long while. It was several long seconds before he realised there were tears sliding down his cheeks. He had not really felt like anyone believed in him since… Well, since his mother died. He knew Mycroft loved him, in his own odd way, but that is not the same as having someone really believe in you. This is what Lestrade was offering him. As much as the paranoia and the desire for drugs were telling him to discredit Lestrade, the physical reaction of tears could not so easily be dismissed. It was with that in mind that Sherlock decided he owed it to Lestrade, if not himself, to give this search an honest try.

Several hours later, Imogene came in with a tray of food for Sherlock. She smiled gently at him when he looked up at her. Her voice was soft, "Brought you some dinner."

Sherlock nodded to the coffee table and removed his feet from the table so she would have a place to set the tray down. He then set the computer next to the food and rubbed his hands over his face. Imogene did not say more, but instead turned to leave, when Sherlock spoke, "Please stay."

Her lips twitched in a small smile that broadened when Sherlock gestured to the place next to him on the couch. He clearly wanted her to sit. It was rare that Sherlock asked anything of anyone anymore and considering what he had been through recently, Imogene felt she could indulge him. She sat down next to him, but she did not speak. She would let him direct this encounter. After a few moments, Sherlock all but crawled into her lap and rested his head between her shoulder and her chest. She knew what he was doing: listening to her heartbeat.

She remained still for about five minutes, just letting Sherlock seek solace in that space. Then she gently brought a hand up to slide it soothingly over his hat. She knew it probably was not as effective as carding her fingers through his curls, but she hoped the sentiment would be enough to comfort him. A few more minutes of silence passed before she heard Sherlock's voice, "I'm going to…. I need…."

One of his hands gestured towards the open computer. On the screen, she saw the website for a rehabilitation clinic. Before she could respond, Sherlock spoke again, she could hardly make out the words, they were spoken so softly, "I'm scared."

She heard him sniffle and a few moments later she knew he was crying. It was all she could do to not cry herself, but she knew that would not help him. Instead, she held him tighter and started to whisper softly to him. She did not tell him it would be all right, for no one could be certain it would be. Instead she told him she was there with him, would help him however she could, and that she was so proud of him for making this decision. When Sherlock stopped clinging to her quite so tightly and his tears slowed, she began to sing softly to him. It was difficult to find lullabies to sing to Sherlock. His mind was always so analytical. About the same time as Sherlock was interested in pirates, he had a passing interest in the movie, _Bedknobs and Broomsticks._ Imogene always thought he liked it because in the movie, Professor Brown was a scam artist, but his spells just happened to work for one woman. She supposed that for Sherlock, the lesson of "both/and" was learned through that movie. A song from that movie came to her and she knew it was the right one. In so many ways, "The Age of Not Believing" was where Sherlock was right at this moment, so she softly sang it to him.

Sherlock actually listened to the lyrics this time. They moved something within him. He quietly sniffled and again clung to Imogene. When she finished the song, she dropped a gentle kiss to his hat-covered head, "I'll always believe in you, Sherlock. Even when you can't believe in yourself."

In reply, Sherlock simply nodded. She gave him a few minutes to calm down then gently rubbed his shoulder, to encourage him to move off of her, "Up you get. The food will get cold."

Sherlock moved reluctantly, "Please stay?"

Imogene smirked, "You're lucky I brought enough for two."

She did not expect Sherlock to eat much, but if her staying meant he would eat anything, she would stay. She knew he would need all the strength he could muster for the draining conversation he would have with his brother about this. They ate in relative silence, only speaking when necessary. Finally, as she started to clear the tray away, Sherlock gently took her wrist, "Thank you."

She turned back to face him, leaned over and kissed him on his forehead like she used to do when he was little, "Anytime, my boy."

Sherlock closed his eyes as she planted the kiss and for that one brief moment, he felt that he could live up to the belief she felt for him.


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: Two in two days! Don't get used to it, though, just happened to have a bit of inspiration.**

* * *

"_We have what you might call a... difficult relationship."_

It was past ten o'clock at night when Mycroft finally returned. Sherlock had been sitting in the library waiting for him. Greg had sent a short text to Mycroft so that Mycroft could prepare himself to face Sherlock. As Mycroft entered the house, Imogene greeted him and helped him to the kitchen where she had a late supper prepared for him. As he ate, she too offered him some insight to Sherlock. She ended, "Go easy on him. He is trying and he needs his brother now, not a parent."

Mycroft wanted to protest, but instead he simply closed his mouth and nodded. When he was finished eating, he slowly made his way to the library. He opened the door a crack and peeked in before entering. He saw Sherlock sitting there, staring at the computer screen. Mycroft approached slowly and took the chair that was next to the couch. He sat quietly, debating if he should start the conversation. The silence between the brothers stretched into ten minutes, neither moving. Sherlock took a cleansing breath, "I've been doing some research and I think rehab might be helpful this time."

Mycroft nodded, "Do you have somewhere in mind?"

Sherlock gestured to the computer and Mycroft picked it up. Three different websites were open with three very different types of rehab facilities. All were in-patient programmes; one was in London, one in France and one in the States. Mycroft sighed, "If you want this, I can arrange something through the government."

Sherlock shook his head. Mycroft cocked his head slightly as he considered his brother, "Only one is here in London…"

Sherlock nodded, "Some of the research suggests getting a person away from what triggers their desire for drugs helps the process."

Mycroft sighed softly, set the computer back on the coffee table, then got up and moved to sit next to his brother. Again they were silent for a few long minutes, until Mycroft's soft voice broke it, "Sherlock, I know you think I don't know or can't understand what it's like for you. But I do know that your desire for drugs is as much an addiction as it is a way to cope with everything you have going on in that massive head of yours."

Sherlock did not want to be surprised by Mycroft's gentleness and knowledge. He could not keep the shock out of his features, though, "How do you do it?"

A small flicker of a smile passed Mycroft's lips as he considered how to answer. It had been so long since Sherlock sought advice, Mycroft was not entirely sure he should answer. Finally he took a breath, "My job keeps me busy… and when I don't have that… I have you to worry about."

Sherlock scoffed at this, "I'm not a child."

"I know, Sherlock, all the more reason why I worry about you. I can't help you with this. We're different – I don't mind a lot of activity, as long as I balance it with a bit of silence. You have never liked large groups of people around you. Being alone has never bothered you, even when the rest of us thought it was unhealthy…." Mycroft broke off speaking and picked the laptop back up. He entered a secured website and showed the page to Sherlock.

Sherlock took the computer and started to read. Going there would be a compromise. Mycroft would have access to all of his files – which is why Sherlock was looking at other places. Mycroft's voice broke into Sherlock's thoughts, "I can arrange for you to have access to the laboratory. I know you'll need some sense of distraction while you're there."

That was something Sherlock had not considered. But this was his brother and he knew there would be a catch, "And…."

Mycroft took a breath, "And in exchange, you will work on the projects I assign you."

Sherlock's brows furrowed together, "That's it?"

Mycroft tilted his head, "That's it. And if you'd rather not work in the lab, then you don't have to work on the projects I send."

Sherlock carefully considered this. His brother did not compromise – at least not with him. Some could argue that Mycroft did not compromise with foreign dignitaries, only manipulated them into thinking they had compromised. Sherlock could either accept this olive branch that Mycroft offered, or he knew he would be on his own. Sherlock would have to tread carefully, "And if I want to leave? Drop out early?"

Mycroft sighed, "The minimum stay is twenty-eight days. I will only require that amount. I will stay out of your treatment and only request weekly updates. If you and those in charge of your treatment decide you should stay longer, you will be allowed to, but I will not impose it upon you. After twenty-eight days, you are free to leave."

Sherlock took in all that his brother said, "I want the terms in writing as part of the admission package."

A flicker of some emotion passed Mycroft's features, "Done."

That was it, then. Sherlock was… he did not know how he felt. Suddenly, it was all very real and he felt vulnerable and scared. Mycroft went to move off the couch, but Sherlock reached for his hand, "Stay."

With his free hand, Sherlock slowly slid the hat off his head and spoke softly, "Please?"

Mycroft looked down at him and did not see the man his brother had become, but a scared ten-year-old boy. He sat down and Sherlock rested his head in Mycroft's lap as he would sometimes do when he was little. Sherlock did not have any locks that Mycroft could card his fingers through, but he rested his hand on Sherlock's head anyway. The brothers stayed like that for a long time in silence.

"I'm scared."

Imogene had told Mycroft that Sherlock had said that to her as well. He looked down on his brother, "That's because you've accepted that this time will be different."

Sherlock shook his head, "No. What if something is really wrong with me? What if they keep me locked up forever?"

Mycroft would have never thought that Sherlock would express such self-doubt. But then, maybe that had always been part of Sherlock's problem. While genius needs an audience, it also can appear so strange to everyone else that it can be labelled as a deficiency. Mycroft's response contained all the certainty of his government position, "I won't let them."

Sherlock took a shuddering breath. He looked so small and frail to Mycroft, but in a way that was completely different from when he had nearly died not long ago. Mycroft knew Sherlock was on the edge of tears and he did not know how best to comfort his brother.

Back when Sherlock had wanted to be a pirate, he was interested in dragons as well. The Disney film _Pete's Dragon_ captured his imagination. Though he used to talk about how he despised 'that one song' – going so far as to press the fast-forward button on the VCR whenever it came on - Mycroft used to sing it to him anyway, when he would wake up from a nightmare. Now, so many years later, he began to sing "Candle On the Water" softly, so only he and Sherlock could hear.

It was not long before Sherlock's breath slowed into the rhythm of sleep. Mycroft eventually fell asleep as well, resting his head against the back of the couch. Before going to bed, Imogene checked on the brothers and finding them both asleep, she took two blankets, draping one around Sherlock and the other around Mycroft. She did this carefully so as not to wake them. As she left the room, she looked back at them and tried to memorise the scene. She doubted the brothers would ever let themselves be this vulnerable around each other ever again. "Good night, my angels."


	30. Chapter 30

**AN: Sorry for the delay! I posted this to AO3 and forgot to update here :( Also, muses are NOT cooperating with chapter 31 and my work life will be exceptionally busy until May, so I doubt there will be an update before then.**

* * *

"_The distraction over the game continues…_"

Mycroft had woken several hours later and slowly manoeuvred himself so that Sherlock was lying on the couch. He knew it would not do for the brothers to wake up in the positions in which they had fallen asleep. Both of them resented sentiment far too much for that to be a good thing. Still, he made sure Sherlock was comfortable before making his way to his bedroom. Tomorrow would be a trying day for both of them and he knew no matter how much Sherlock seemed to accept his situation now; he would fight it tomorrow.

Sherlock woke slowly the next morning. He first came to an awareness that he was not in his bed. Once he realised he was lying on a couch, he snuggled a bit farther into the blanket that was wrapped around him. It smelled… like his brother. Normally, that would set him on edge, but for some reason it calmed him. He opened one eye, cracking it a slit, then he opened the other. He was in the library. That was good; books were familiar. As he stretched, his feet pressed against the armrest and his arms pulled up and over the opposite armrest. Then he curled into the blanket again. It was some minutes before he opened his eyes again. When he opened them, he was greeted with several sheets of paper propped into standing position against the open laptop. He reached a hand out to grab them and read them. As he started to comprehend what he was reading, he sat up, immediately awake.

Mycroft had done as promised and drafted a document with the conditions for Sherlock's admittance. Sherlock read over it carefully. He wanted to make sure that all of his conditions were listed and no additional ones had made their way into the document. Satisfied, Sherlock picked up a pen. Just as he was about to sign it, he heard Mycroft clearing his throat. "You need to wait to sign it until we're there. You wanted it as part of the admissions process, after all. So it requires a witness from the clinic."

He slowly moved into the room and sat across from his brother. "Have you decided where you want to be placed?"

Sherlock was silent for a long time and then quietly replied, "Florida."

Mycroft nodded, "I thought as much, so I did some checking. We do have a reciprocal agreement with the facility there. You will be admitted here and flown over there under supervision. I will do what I can to procure lab space for you, but the rules in the States are different and even with the reciprocal agreement, I cannot make guarantees. Is there anyone you want to see before we go?"

"Lestrade." The reply was quick and Sherlock huffed at himself, "Sentiment."

Mycroft's lips twitched in a part-smile, "I think in this case, it is quite understandable. I'll make the arrangements."

Sherlock dismissed Mycroft with a nod of his head.

The rest of the day passed quickly. Sherlock spent most of it hovering near Imogen. Mycroft began to set up the necessary arrangements, including an airline ticket for Sherlock and a travel companion. Luckily, one of the nurses from the facility in Florida was in London for some training, so he could accompany Sherlock to the States on the flight the next day. Unfortunately, that meant that Sherlock would have to spend a night in the London facility. Mycroft had planned Sherlock's admittance for eight o'clock in the evening. Since they would need to leave by nine the next morning to get to the airport in time for the flight. That would give Sherlock just over twelve hours. More than Sherlock would like, but Mycroft hoped he would not hold it against him.

Lestrade arrived as soon as work permitted him. It was actually somewhat early 4.45. So, Imogen made sure there was enough food for all of them. Dinner was somewhat subdued. Imogen and Lestrade tried to keep spirits up, but seemed to fail each time. The Holmes Boys were just too solemn to be tempted in such a way. After they finished eating, Lestrade and Sherlock retired to a sitting room. Mycroft and Imogen left them alone. Lestrade had a cup of tea and a biscuit and Sherlock only had tea.

As he sat, Greg noted that Sherlock seemed agitated. Nervous is the wrong word. He was agitated, but why… Sherlock watched Lestrade closely, then looked down at himself and back at Lestrade, "What if I don't want to come back?"

To anyone else, this might have sounded like Sherlock was speaking mid-thought. But Lestrade knew this was simply a continuation of the conversation they held the day before. He nodded and gestured for Sherlock to sit. "Come back from where? The facility or The States?"

Sherlock's lips twitched. Lestrade was not as much of an idiot as most of the people he encountered. At the very least, he knew enough to ask clarifying questions when he could not discern the thoughts of others. Sherlock had to pause to think about the answer. _Where, indeed_. Finally he answered quietly, "Rehab."

Lestrade took the answer in stride, "Why wouldn't you want to come back?"

"What if I like it there? I mean, they provide everything for me and maybe I can't… Maybe recovery is not a possibility for me."

"Please sit down, Sherlock."

Lestrade waited for Sherlock to comply before addressing the question at hand. He took a breath before starting. "Sherlock, the fact that you're asking that question shows that you'd rather come back. That tells me that what you're really worried about is that they won't _let_ you come back."

Sherlock shakes his head at that, "My admittance papers have already been arranged to prevent them keeping me." He paused and was quiet for some minutes. "But, what if going there… I discover everyone's been right about me all along? That I'm a 'freak' and the best place for me is locked away from society."

Lestrade's mind was racing at those words. _How could someone so utterly brilliant be so stupid about something like this?_ "Sherlock, I've seen lots of stuff in my days and let me tell you something: You cared about that kid." Lestrade held his hand up, "Let me finish. You didn't just care about him. His death… made you… well, what happened to you. I still don't understand all of it. But I know that people who need to be 'locked away from society' don't care about anyone but themselves."

Sherlock wanted to protest, but he knew from all he studied that this was true. He sniffed; he was not going to cry. Sentiment had never done him any favours. Lestrade smiled softly at Sherlock's reaction, "Besides, if you get yourself sorted, then maybe I can have you help me on some cases. I've been researching you. I came across the work you did for DI Bradstreet. It was solid work."

Sherlock met Lestrade's eyes at that, "You mean… you would be willing to do the same?"

Greg nodded once, "You get yourself clean and get back here and I'll do whatever I can."

He reached in his pocket and then handed Sherlock a business card, "You keep this with you and if you need any help, don't hesitate to call me, all right?"

Sherlock accepted the card with a nod, "Okay." He paused for a moment, "Thank you."

Lestrade smiled, then pulled Sherlock into a side-hug, "You're a good lad, Sherlock, I think you just need a chance."

Sherlock did not shrink him off, in fact, he turned slightly and returned the hug. Mostly, he still doubted if he would ever see Lestrade again and the hug was a way for him to memorise more about the man before he left Sherlock's life forever.


	31. Chapter 31

A/N: I got this chapter completed early! Things still REALLY hectic at work, so you may not see the next chapter for a couple of weeks yet. (But at least I now know where I want this part to go!)

* * *

"_It stops being pretend if they find anything._" – "A Study In Pink"

Mycroft was correct with his assessment of Sherlock's reaction. As the Jag pulled up to the gate of the facility, Sherlock made the attempt to jump out and run. Mycroft knew that Sherlock could figure a way past the door and so he grabbed his brother's wrist. Sherlock first tried to shake his brother off, then he started to try to hit Mycroft so he could get away.

Mycroft had expected as much and used a restraining technique he had learned. He pulled Sherlock into his lap, crossed his arms over Sherlock's upper body – immobilising Sherlock's arms and crossing his legs over Sherlock's legs. Most of the apparent violence of the actions was because Sherlock was fighting him. When he finally had Sherlock restrained, Mycroft spoke softly; there was almost an edge of tenderness to his tone, "Calm down, Sherlock. You know this is for the best. Breathe. Just breathe."

Mycroft exaggerated his own breaths; purposefully making them slower, hoping Sherlock would follow his example. When Sherlock seemed calm enough, Mycroft spoke, "If you try to escape, you know that the contract we have developed will become null. They will be able to keep you as long as they want or even section you."

Mycroft paused for a moment to see if Sherlock gave any reaction, when none happened, he continued, "I realise this may be difficult for you to believe, but I want you to come back."

At that, Sherlock fought weakly, "I'm not an addict."

"I know," Mycroft whispered, "But that doesn't mean you do not need help. We both know that standard therapy will not help you. This is a compromise. _And_, you might learn some skills to help you."

Sherlock took a deep, cleansing breath and nodded, "Okay. I'm okay now."

Mycroft loosened his grip, "Are you sure?"

Sherlock nodded and so Mycroft released him, but wrapped his hand around one of Sherlock's wrists. It was as much to anchor Sherlock, as it was to offer support to him. This was probably the most difficult moments the brothers had ever faced. So much was uncertain in both of their minds.

The car proceeded towards the entrance of the facility. The check-in went rather smoothly, but when Sherlock was being led away, they had put restraints on his wrists. He tried to break free, then turned to face his brother, "Mycroft! No, please! They won't let me back, you know it!" As the nurses continued to lead him away, he called out, "Don't leave me!"

Sherlock sounded so lost – Mycroft had never heard such a tone from him before. The check-in nurse gave a look to Mycroft that said, "Go."

Mycroft paused met Sherlock's eyes, but said nothing and turned to leave. Sherlock's cries for help were echoing though his mind. Even when the car was far away from the facility, he thought he could still hear his brother shouting for him.

Due to his reaction, Sherlock was taken to a padded cell. He screamed until he was hoarse. When he could not scream anymore, he started to throw himself against the walls and door. The staff thought Sherlock would wear himself out. They underestimated his tenacity. He continued all night.

Eventually, they had to sedate him for transport. It was mild, more to make him placid and subservient than to knock him out completely. Sherlock tried to fight them, but the drug worked relatively quickly. The nurse, George Morrison, was given a few more needles along with instructions for the flight. Since the flight to Miami, Florida was nine hours long, Sherlock was to receive two more injections: one three hours into the flight and the second before they landed.

George did not like Sherlock. Although the medicine made Sherlock manageable, he wanted to make it so that Sherlock's time at Ford Rehab would be controlled. He was limited somewhat by the contract that the Holmes brothers had established. But if Sherlock were to be presented as a danger to himself or to others… That could easily nullify the terms of the contract. So he decided to change the timing of Sherlock's medicines. The first was given as soon as the plane started to taxi to the runway. The second was administered about two hours before landing. This shift in time was enough to give Sherlock a case of nerves by the time they landed.

The effects of not having a sedative were augmented by the fact that Sherlock was still struggling with paranoia as part of his withdrawal. Now, he was in a foreign country, surrounded by people he did not know and had no means of escape. The facility had a secure area and this was where Sherlock was assigned, due to his reactions. He tried to explain that he did not feel right, that he thought his doses were incorrect, but they ignored him as a "druggy.

* * *

The first week, Sherlock did not speak and only ate under threat of a feeding tube. He was confined to his room and for two hours each day, once in the morning and once in the late afternoon, he had a therapy session. He knew his contracted days would not begin until he started to talk, but he figured he would never be released now anyway, so what was the point?

Brent Morris, MD had taken on Sherlock's case. As one of the directors of Ford Rehab, he usually was not assigned cases, but something about Sherlock's admission process and the file that had come from London had piqued his interest. Sherlock was an interesting case on paper, but he wanted to know if there was more to Sherlock than what the paperwork offered. Self-medication was not unusual for a variety of medical conditions and if Sherlock was as intelligent as his paperwork seemed to indicate, his brilliance could easily mask any number of such conditions. Against the recommendation of his partners and the Admissions Staff, Brent took the case anyway.

Brent went and sat in Sherlock's room twice a day for an hour. Sometimes he would try to engage the man, others he would read Sherlock's chart out loud, hoping that he would correct any fallacies that might be in the reports. Then, there were the times he would simply sit in silence. But it was a silence that he hoped would one day encourage Sherlock to speak.

This is not to say that Sherlock was not communicating with them. If Sherlock did not want to eat or leave his room or shower, his objections were made quite clear. But, Brent was surprised at Sherlock's tenacity. It was strange, but it seemed his sessions with Sherlock that were conducted in complete silence were the most draining to him. It was not until the weekend that he realized the level of communication happening during those sessions. It was a battle of wills: each was trying to figure out information about the other, but then there was the fight to reveal as little as possible.

Doctor Morris smiled to himself as the realisation became clear. He knew everything about Sherlock, but Sherlock knew nothing about him. He wondered if Sherlock would be more willing to talk if Sherlock knew something about him. He would have to proceed carefully; he did not want to confuse the Doctor/Patient roles. But there were a number of things he could tell Sherlock that might make the man more comfortable around him.


	32. Chapter 32

"_People don't really go to heaven when they die. They're taken to a special room and burned_." – A Scandal in Belgravia

Doctor Brent Morris had decided to give himself and Sherlock a break from each other. It was a Sunday, so really the best thing for it. He had also arranged for the staff to not push Sherlock. Brent believed Sherlock needed complete rest and the staff forcing him to cooperate would not be restful for anyone.

The next morning, Brent made his way to the nurses' station to see how Sherlock did without any visitors. The charge nurse on duty reported that he had refused to cooperate in any form on Sunday, but this morning had at least eaten a half-slice of toast and drank some tea. Doctor Morris read over the other reports from Sunday, "Interesting."

The nurse raised her eyebrow, but Brent did not expand. Then he made his way to Sherlock's room. Once he entered, he disconnected the camera that was in the corner. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Brent took his regular seat and opened a rather thick folder. He began to read from it. It was the abbreviated medical history about himself that he had assembled. Sherlock said nothing and when Brent was done, he stood, plugged the camera back in and left the room.

Doctor Morris returned to Sherlock's room for their afternoon appointment. Again he unplugged the camera before taking his regular seat. After a few minutes of silence, he asked, "Do you have any questions for me?"

Sherlock gave a weighted glance before commenting, "You have MS, but no one here knows about it yet, hence why you unplugged the camera. If you're going to test me to see the truth of what you read in my files, you could have done something challenging."

Brent smiled, not only was it a response, but Sherlock Holmes did not disappoint with his abilities, "Before we start working on addiction recovery, I would like to run some tests."

Sherlock looked scandalised for a moment, but then his expression cooled into indifference, "What for?"

Brent gave a nod to the question, "Because I want to make sure that we treat you for the proper conditions. Rehab won't help you if you're not an addict."

Sherlock was quiet for a long time, "I still get to be released. That was part of the agreement."

Brent nodded, "Based on the reports I have, I see no reason to keep you if the process works."

Sherlock reluctantly agreed. Over the next few days, Doctor Morris ran a battery of tests on Sherlock, never offering the results. Now it was Thursday afternoon and he had assembled all the results and prepared to go over them with Sherlock. He entered. Sherlock had been surprisingly cooperative. Doctor Morris' history and Sherlock's deductions of him never came up, it seemed they had a mutual understanding.

Doctor Morris sat down and flipped through the chart, debating what to go over first. He looked at Sherlock, who looked anxious and he decided to put the man out of his misery, "Either you are on some spectrum of every mental disorder known, or your brilliance and the way you see things means no test I can administer will clarify things for me. And that means the only one who can give me any clear understanding about you is _you_."

That was not what Sherlock expected to hear, "So nothing is wrong with me?"

Brent smiled, "I didn't say that. You have a drug problem, but I'm not sure I would call you an addict. You clearly have troubles relating to those around you, but I can't call you a sociopath, nor can I find consistent enough results to put you on the Autism spectrum. According to your file, you attempted suicide in the past out of 'boredom,' but it's possible any depression you had could be related to your drug of choice rather than a chemical imbalance."

He paused to see if Sherlock gave any response. It was obvious that Sherlock was listening, so he continued, "Describe your history to me."

At that Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "You've read my reports. You've read them to me."

Brent shrugged, "Those are the opinions others have formed of you. I want to know what you think of yourself."

Only a few people in Sherlock's life had seemed so interested in him: Mother, Imogen and a few members of the Homeless Network. Most were interested in how he did things, what he saw, but not really his person. Yet, he did not know how to talk about himself.

Brent set aside his papers and pens, he leaned back, trying to look non-threatening, but his expression suggested he was serious, "I want to help you, Sherlock. But the best way for me to do that is to understand these things from your perspective."

Sherlock was quiet for a long time. When he started to talk, it was like he could not stop. He talked well past the time his appointment would have regularly ended and into the dinner hour. When it appeared that Sherlock was still not finished, Brent ordered their dinner brought to them and Sherlock continued his tale. Doctor Morris found that although Sherlock's opinion of others was cutting, his opinion of himself was completely unforgiving.

When Sherlock was done Brent looked at him and spoke simply, "Thank you for sharing your insights. Now that I have heard both sides of the story, I think I can help you. Do you think you will be able to fall asleep on your own tonight, or would you like me to have the nurse get a sedative?"

Sherlock was quiet for a long moment, "I think…. A sedative would be good."

Brent nodded, "Your mind will be churning after sharing so much at one time. I'll get the pills."

Brent turned the camera back on, left and when he returned he had a small paper pot and a paper cup with water. Sherlock took the items without argument. Brent nodded, "Sleep, Sherlock. I'll be back in the morning and we can start working on a plan to get you out of here."

Sherlock settled into bed and nodded. With that, Brent left, but he knew his work was just beginning.

* * *

To keep the momentum that was discovered during their testing sessions going, Doctor Morris insisted on seeing Sherlock everyday. Which is how he found himself in Sherlock's room on Sunday. Since it was Sunday, he opted to do one visit for a longer time in the early afternoon, rather than the regular two. He was fairly certain that Sherlock knew of the Twelve Steps. Brent decided to just get the ball rolling, "If you're not an addict, how would you describe your relationship with drugs?"

Sherlock was quiet for a long time. A part of him considered not answering the question at all, but the part of him that wanted out of here in the next month decided it was best to talk. He shrugged his shoulders, "It helps me to think."

Brent remained silent, hoping Sherlock would expand upon his answer. After a few uncomfortable minutes, Sherlock continued, "The same reason you gave a sedative to me the other day."

Brent nodded, "And why the morphine or heroine and cocaine combination?"

Sherlock shifted, he knew the deeper question Brent was asking. But, unlike the other idiots in this place, Brent seemed to be genuinely curious about Sherlock's answers. He took a slow breath before answering, "My first introduction was to morphine after I broke my leg. It made everything quiet. I have a high pain tolerance, but the hypersensitivity…"

Sherlock tapered off into silence and shook his head.

"So taking the morphine wasn't so much about dulling any physical pain as it was deadening your senses. And the cocaine?"

Sherlock swallowed thickly, "I was introduced to it during Sixth Form. It was like my body and mind were in sync for the first time in my life. Everything had always been so disconnected before then…"

Sherlock lapsed back into silence and Brent waited. Sherlock finally continued, "I hadn't taken them both together until about a year ago. I discovered they were the perfect balance. I would have the experience of my body catching up to my brain with the cocaine and then the morphine would deaden everything else."

Brent nodded, "So you were self-medicating. Anything in particular you were trying to get away from?"

"Death."

Brent arched an eyebrow at Sherlock's reply, "You were trying to get away from death by killing yourself?"

Sherlock shook his head, "People keep dying and there's nothing I can do to save them."

Brent leaned forward while listening intently, "Go on…"

Sherlock shrugged, suddenly feeling too vulnerable, "It's sentiment and stupid."

Brent raised an eyebrow at that. The answer to the next question could make or break Sherlock's recovery, "Sherlock. Do you believe in a higher power?"

Brent held up his hand to stop Sherlock's overly analytical mind from tossing the idea completely, "This doesn't have to have anything to do with religion. Just a power greater than yourself that exists outside of yourself."

Sherlock sat in silence. What did he believe? Did he even know? "I was raised and confirmed in the Church of England. But…"

Brent sat there waiting for Sherlock to continue. Which he did, "The more I studied and learned about science, the more confusing everything became. Every time I think I've found proof that 'God' can't possibly exist, I find something else that seems to show he can – or something like him."

Brent nodded, "Agnostic, then?"

Sherlock shrugged, "Maybe, there is insufficient data. And it doesn't help that all the sentiments of different religions sometimes seem to conflict with each other."

Brent again nodded, "So, you're not opposed to the idea that there might be a power greater than all of us."

Sherlock shrugged, "I'm not even opposed to calling such a power 'God.' But I find a lot of the religions confuse the issues… They all seem to argue over whether the path is rocky or smooth, whether it's a dirt road or pavement. In the end, they all seem to lead to the same place, I think."

Brent smiles softly, "There are a lot of people in here who call themselves 'Spiritual but not religious.'"

Again Sherlock shrugged, "I'm not even opposed to all aspects of religion. I see why the consistency and even some of the sentimental rituals would be of comfort to others. I just don't find it necessary for me."

Brent nodded. Well, this was going to be hard, but not as hard as he was afraid it would be. Sherlock was at least familiar with, and not completely against, the idea of a higher power. It was something he could work with. Brent had been quiet too long and Sherlock broke through his thoughts, "How long do I have to stay under observation?"

"Everyone is under some form of observation here, Sherlock. But, I think we can look at offering you a bit more freedom. Due to depression and a suicide attempt being part of your past withdrawal symptoms though, I want to make sure you're past that point before giving you total freedom. As long as you're here, I want to keep you safe."

Sherlock looked up at Brent, there was something about the way Brent said that. It was not the way Mycroft would say it. It was something he had not heard in a long time, "You care. Why."

It was less of a question and more of a demand for information. Brent sighed, "Because I think you were antagonised upon your arrival here. And I noticed some inconsistences with your arrival compared to how you've acted the past week or so. I did some digging and Nurse Morrison has been fired."

Sherlock's eyes went wide, but he simply swallowed hard and nodded, "Thank you."

Doctor Morris nodded and then left Sherlock to his thoughts.


	33. Chapter 33

**AN: Shorter chapter since this felt like a more natural break. And these three chapters together would have been far too long XD**

* * *

_Look, Sherlock, you're doing really well. Don't give up now._ – "The Hounds of Baskerville"

An unspoken understanding had transpired between Sherlock and Doctor Morris. While Sherlock did not have to attend group sessions as much as everyone else, he was required to attend one session a day. Brent thought it was important for Sherlock to understand that his thoughts and feelings might not be as alien as Sherlock sometimes made it sound. Sherlock actually did fairly well in the group sessions. He did not speak much, but the discussions gave him things to talk about during his private meetings with Brent.

Sherlock had been moved to a less secure part of the building and sometimes his meetings with Brent would even take place outside. He was progressing well. Brent thought it would be hard for Sherlock to admit his wrongs. Once Sherlock set his mind to something he would do it, if for no other reason than to finish the task. However, it was obvious that he needed to realise that the way he harshly saw himself was also a shortcoming; that he needed to forgive himself. Perhaps most of all, he needed to realise that he could be loved.

Even getting Sherlock to write to Imogen and Mycroft went better than Brent could have hoped. While he did not let Brent read his letter to Imogen, he did ask for help with the letter to Mycroft. After reading it, he handed it back to Sherlock, "It is a good letter, though I should warn you, he may not reply."

Sherlock nodded, "And knowing Mycroft, he won't until he decides he needs me. He's even less sentimental than I am."

That brought a small smile to Brent's lips, "We've been in contact, as you well know from the terms of your admission. But, lack of sentimentality doesn't mean he doesn't care."

He watched as several emotions crossed Sherlock's face. Sherlock remained silent. They were sitting outside in one of the lawn benches, while there were others milling about, no one was close enough to hear them. _Right, time for the real work to begin_, Brent thought. He looked him over, "Why is it so difficult for you to accept that people care about you?"

Sherlock shrugged. Brent remained quiet and when it was obvious that Sherlock was not going to say anything, he changed his approach, "You're shutting me out too, this doesn't have anything to do with the fact that you'll be released at the end of the week does it?"

Sherlock just gave Brent a look and remained silent. Brent sighed heavily, "It's more than just 'death' you were trying to get away from. It's everyone leaving you and now I'm leaving you, even though it's you that will be leaving." After a long pause Brent continued, "Feeling that way is normal, Sherlock."

Sherlock huffed. It was not much, but at least it was a reply. Brent pressed, "Oh, I think you feel it more intensely than others because of your background, because of what you told me about your Mother and Bat, but it is normal to be apprehensive about leaving. You like it here. It's safe. You don't have to worry about anything other than yourself and working to get yourself better. And when you leave, there are all the outside pressures. There's no one to remind you to dress, shower, eat or sleep. You're on your own again."

Sherlock shifted his expression into a glare. It was obvious that the glare was meant to make Brent stop. Of course, Brent had nothing to loose, Sherlock was likely to be his last patient before he told the others about his condition. He nodded, "You'll have no one to help guide you when things get to be too much. No one to stop you from going after drugs…."

"Shut-up!" Sherlock cried out and covered his hands over his ears. "Shut-up, shut-up, shut-up, shut-up!"

Brent let Sherlock carry on for a few moments. He then tentatively put his hand on Sherlock's back. Sherlock tensed, but Brent left his hand there. After a few more moments, Brent spoke, "Sherlock, leaving the clinic is a good thing. And it doesn't mean that we have to stop seeing each other. In fact, I would very much like to continue to see you."

Sherlock stiffened again, "Why?"

Brent removed his hand, "You're interesting. You're unlike anyone else I've ever met. And… I think the work you've done here… has been good, Sherlock. I don't think you'll need this kind of help again."

Brent went silent after that. He knew he was not supposed to instil this kind of hope in recovering addicts, but Sherlock was not an addict, he had realised that during their time together. At least, Sherlock was not addicted to drugs. That had happened by accident.

Sherlock's voice was soft and low, Brent nearly missed the words, "But I still want them."

Brent nodded, "And that feeling might never go away, which is something you'll have to come to terms with. The thing is; this desire for them doesn't mean that you're bad or that you will give in."

Sherlock frowned at that and shrugged. Brent made his final point, "You're loveable and, Sherlock, you deserve to be loved."

At that, Sherlock stood and silently walked away from Brent. Brent did not chase after him. He had pushed enough for one session and they could talk more in the afternoon. Instead, he made his way back inside and informed one of the nurses to keep an eye on Sherlock and make sure he made it back in for lunch.


	34. Chapter 34

_Girlfriend? No. Not really may area._ – "A Study In Pink"

Brent had some concerns that Sherlock would not come to the afternoon session. He smiled and looked up as Sherlock entered his office. They were going to meet elsewhere, as Sherlock seemed to enjoy getting as much freedom as he could. Sherlock sat down and without any preamble spoke, "I prefer to not be loved."

Doctor Morris took a deep breath, set aside what he was working on and looked over Sherlock carefully, "Can you explain more."

"It's too complex. Emotions jumble everything, get in the way…."

Sherlock tapered off, but Brent took over, "And it's too painful when people leave or it ends?"

Sherlock shrugged, "Partly."

Brent leaned back and waited for Sherlock to explain himself. When Sherlock did not, he prompted, "Sherlock, are you a virgin?"

Sherlock stiffened slightly at the question and Brent worried that he had pressed too far. But Sherlock did reply, "I don't see what my sexual status has to do with anything."

It was a fair remark, but Brent thought there was more to it, "Well, the touch of a fellow human – whether sexually, as friends or even from strangers – can stimulate certain chemicals in the brain. It is possible that you are craving such chemicals and rather than getting it naturally, you've turned to cocaine."

Sherlock sat there quietly for a few minutes. He understood chemistry, knew that Brent was correct – at least to a point – but he could not admit it, "Sex is dull and sentiment doesn't help anyone in the end."

Brent leaned forward to offer a challenge to Sherlock, "And bitterness is a paralytic."

Sherlock sat back, shocked, no one had ever called him out on his attitude quite like that before. There was some level of truth to it. When Sherlock remained quiet for too long, Brent continued to press the issue, "You know, there's one more thing that I couldn't figure out from all of your tests… Your sexual orientation."

Sherlock looked up at that, "What has that got to do with anything?"

Brent shrugged, "Maybe nothing, maybe everything. It depends if you're trying to hide it or not."

Sherlock shifted his gaze to his hands. He was not sure of the answer to that question himself. "I don't have one."

Brent raised an eyebrow, thinking Sherlock must be in denial, "You don't have one?"

Sherlock lifted his gaze and just stared intently at Brent, nearly daring Brent to challenge him further. Brent shifted, "I understand if you're confused or if you don't know what your orientation is, but Sherlock, _everyone_ has an orientation."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Sherlock challenged right back, "But I've never been interested in anyone. I've looked at men and women, I've looked into porn. I've even experimented… some."

Brent nodded, "And…?"

Sherlock shrugged, "I have a bio-chemical response to stimulus, if that's what you're asking. But I find the process incredibly boring and quite messy."

Sherlock pulled a small face as he thought about one of his "experiments." Sex was messy, how come no one ever mentioned that part? All the bodily fluids mixing together, the sweat, the emotions that always seemed to accompany it and to what result? It was not that there was anything wrong with sexual activity. But since it was not the "great thing" that everyone else seemed to think it was, the mess and effort were not worth the results.

This was… interesting Brent had never heard of such an experience before. He was about to open his mouth to suggest they look into some disorders, when Sherlock held up his hand and continued, "I don't have any disorder that I know of. While some of the experiments were less than pleasant, I wouldn't say I was abused or raped. It's more…" Sherlock tried to come up with the right analogy, not finding one he sighed, "Everyone in high school and college seemed to think sex was the greatest thing and they would be so upset if they didn't have it. Me? I don't miss it. And it doesn't really occur to me to even think about it unless it comes up in a conversation like this."

Brent leaned back in thought. Sherlock's self-analysis was valid; nothing in any of the reports seemed to come off as saying that Sherlock was pathologically disordered. This time it was Brent who had been silent too long and Sherlock's tone was disheartened, "You don't believe me."

"Actually, I was just thinking that there might be validity to what you are saying. I said before that you'll have to self-identify in various areas, because your tests scores were all over the map. But, this is the first time I've ever heard anyone talk like this. I would like to do some research before giving you a reply."

Sherlock gestured to Brent's computer and Brent turned to it and did a quick Internet search. It took him a bit, but after about ten minutes he looked up at Sherlock and gave a nod. Brent quirked his lips, "Asexual."

Sherlock shrugged, "I really don't care what anyone else calls it. It is easiest for me is to explain it by saying I don't have one."

Brent nodded, "That makes sense, I can see why someone with your scientific background would shy away from 'Asexual.' Though, 'I don't have a sexual orientation' will be just as confusing to some."

Sherlock shrugged, "It feels more accurate to me."

Brent nodded, "Okay."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that, "That's it?"

Brent shrugged this time, "I told you: the only one who can tell me about you is you. Though, I'm even less convinced of you being a sociopath now, since so many of those questions could be skewed if you have a non-sexual orientation."

Brent was intentionally using different words now, hoping that it might help Sherlock come up with ways to talk about it. Sherlock simply nodded and then waited to see if Brent had anything additional, which of course he did. He cleared his throat quietly, "Sherlock, I'd like to continue to see you for at least four more months." He held up his hand to stop Sherlock's protest, "I don't mean you have to remain here in rehab, but I want to make sure that you're ready to return to London and I'm not sure you are yet. You've done some amazing work while you've been here. I would just like to see you a bit more adjusted to these discoveries before sending you back."

Sherlock grimaced in thought, "I don't know anyone here; I don't have anywhere to stay."

Brent nodded, "I have a friend who manages half-way houses. I've already been in touch with her and it happens that she has a place available."

Sherlock frowned, "But she'd be there? To check in on me?"

Brent chuckled, "No. She and her husband live in the building, but they simply manage the property. She's from England originally, so I think it would be a good place for you to transition."

Sherlock's frown deepened.

Brent calmly replied, "You don't have to decide today. Think about it. She'll be holding the place until she hears back from me. If you decide to return to London, I ultimately can't stop you. But this is an option for you, should you want to stay."

Sherlock's mind was already whirling, "I don't have anything but a small suitcase. How would I pay rent or anything else?"

"That would be a conversation to have with your brother, should you decide to accept this offer."

Sherlock sighed, "I'm tired."

Brent nodded they had covered a lot of ground today, "As I said, you're not expected to make any decisions today. But I know you like to have time to process things. Just think about it and know that you have choices."

Sherlock nodded and with that, left Brent's office.


	35. Chapter 35

_Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's given me a special deal._ – "A Study in Pink"

Sherlock asked Doctor Morris to let him speak with is brother. Brent arranged the call so that he would be near if Sherlock needed him, but so that he could not overhear what Sherlock said. The conversation was amicable and lasted nearly an hour. After that, Sherlock decided to take Brent up on his offer of the half-way house and further visits. Mycroft would arrange for payment and Sherlock would remain for a minimum of four months. After that, Sherlock could request to return to London at any time.

With that decision made, the next day Sherlock asked Brent if he could put in a call to Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Sherlock still had the DI's card with him. Brent arranged that call as well. Sherlock seemed much more anxious about this call and Brent offered to remain in the room with him. Sherlock shook his head, "No," and so Brent left him to it.

Sherlock nervously picked up the phone and dialled the number. It was just after lunch, but he knew with the time difference, Lestrade should be getting off his day-shift, unless there was a crime scene he was actively processing. Greg did not recognize the number when it appeared on his mobile, so he answered with his full title, "DI Lestrade."

Sherlock was bemused and chuckled softly, "Rather professional, but then I've never called you before. You said I could call, if I needed anything."

Greg's tone lightened noticeably, "Sherlock! How are things going? Is everything all right? You sound better. Are you feeling better?"

Sherlock was caught off-guard by the detective's enthusiasm for his call, "I'm… Doing better. Thank you. But, I'm going to be staying here in the states a bit longer."

Lestrade was not sure how to respond to that. Sherlock did not sound distressed about it, though. He nodded and remembered he was on the phone, "Courtesy call to let me know your plans. I do appreciate being kept in the loop."

Sherlock chuckled softly, "No. I need a favour. I'm going to be released from rehab in a couple days, but I need… work. Something to keep me busy. Do you have any friends over here that could give me work?"

Greg was a bit surprised, "Wouldn't Mycroft have more connections."

Sherlock frowned and his tone contained the semblance of a scowl, "My brother is doing enough."

Sherlock winced. He really should not be bitter. At the same time, he wanted to do things without his brother's "help." Greg sighed softly, "I'll see what I can do. What's the best way to reach you?"

Sherlock gave him Brent's number, since he did not know the number for the house yet. He twisted his lips, debating how to end the call, "Thank you, Lestrade."

Greg smiled, "I haven't done anything yet."

Sherlock's tone turned serious, "And yet, you've done so much already. At any point in time, you could have said, 'No' and you didn't. Thank you."

"You're welcome, Sherlock. Get on your feet and get back here, all right? It's too quiet around here – and we have cold cases I can give you."

Sherlock nodded while pointedly ignoring any sentiment that was trying to fight it's way to the surface, "I will return. You have my word."

"I'll be in touch with some contacts."

With that, Sherlock rang off, without a good-bye.

Brent did not ask Sherlock about the call to Lestrade. He figured the man would tell him what he needed to know, but from Sherlock's expression, he figured Sherlock greatly admired the man. Brent spoke a bit more cheerily than he should have, "Right. Field trip. Go get anything you might want to bring with you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but nodded.

Brent smiled, "I'll meet you at reception, then."

When they met up again, Brent led Sherlock to his car. Sherlock smirked, "Taking me to meet my Landlady?"

Brent nodded, "Not a difficult deduction though, is it?"

Sherlock shrugged and looked out the window. The rest of the ride was in silence. Finally, they pulled up to a modest looking building. It was quaint, but clearly well kept. It was a triplex building. There was a woman tending to some flowers in the front lawn.

Sherlock looked her over as he got out of the car and they approached the woman. Clearly married, happy enough, but she suspects some secret, she loves to care for things. Though, not a mother herself, she treats the property and probably her tenants as her children. Interesting.

Brent approached her, "Mrs Hudson?"

She looked up and smiled, she stood slowly. Sherlock thought, "_Her hip is going bad_."

"Brent, hello, what brings you this way?"

Brent gestured to Sherlock, "I wanted to introduce you to Mr Sherlock Holmes. And I was wondering if we could take a few minutes to look around the apartment?"

Mrs Hudson removed her gardening gloves and held out her hand to Sherlock, "Good to meet you. Brent said I might be getting a new tenant. Shall we go in?"

Sherlock took her hand gently. It was a little cold – poor circulation. He smiled at her, "I thank you for the opportunity."

Mrs Hudson waves him off, "It's no problem, everyone deserves a chance to get back on their feet."

Sherlock tossed a look at Brent, trying to figure out how much he told Mrs Hudson. She led the way in and Brent whispered to him, "Only that you were coming."

Brent gently laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and they followed her in. Mrs Hudson was murmuring as she went to get the keys. When she returned she smiled, "You're lucky. I had one couple move out three months ago and haven't been able to get the place rented and the other just moved out. One is a one-bedroom unit and the other is a studio. I'll show you both and you can pick which one you want."

Brent raised an eyebrow at this news, "Elizabeth moved out, already? I thought she was going to stay for a full year. It's only been seven months."

Mrs Hudson shrugged, "I don't know what to tell you, her note thanked me and said that she had made other arrangements."

Sherlock took in the exchange. On the surface it seemed casual, but there was something in Mrs Hudson's tone. He was shown the one-bedroom first. It was more space than he needed. It felt strangely empty to him, besides it was right next to the couple's place and he did not want them bothering him, if he could help it. The studio was perfect for his purposes. It was already furnished and he did not want anything that would make him feel too comfortable. After all, he was only going to be here for a few months.

"So what do you think, dear?" Mrs Hudson's kind voice broke into Sherlock's thoughts.

"The studio will suffice. You'll be able to make more money renting out the other one."

She giggled softly, "Oh, don't worry about that. It will be nice to have someone living here again."

Sherlock stopped himself from rolling his eyes, but just barely. Still, he found he liked Mrs Hudson, he could not say why. Brent and Sherlock took their leave of her and made their way back to the car.


	36. Chapter 36

_It's going to take you awhile to adjust to civilian life._ – "A Study in Pink"

Brent stopped at a small deli so they could pick up some lunch, then he drove to a park. They got out of the car and found a quiet bench to sit on while they ate. He had been watching Sherlock while the day had progressed and finally asked, "How are you doing?"

"I'm fine."

Brent smirked, "Let's try that again; without the knee-jerk reaction…"

Sherlock took a bite of his sandwich instead of answering. Brent waited for him to answer. Sherlock chewed slowly, "I… I think I could live there for the requested four months, but I don't know about longer."

Brent nodded and took a bite of his sandwich, "And how are you feeling about leaving rehab?"

Sherlock's expression flashed with worry for a moment, before he carefully schooled it back into something impassive. He stared intently at his sandwich while Brent waited patiently for a reply. At last Sherlock spoke, "I'm nervous. But there is no reason for it! I've been through worse and there's really nothing to worry about. If I can survive on my own in a drug-addled state, then surviving without them should be easy."

Brent did not laugh, though he could not prevent the smirk from appearing, "Is that the lie you're telling yourself to make things easier?"

Sherlock took an aggressive bite of his sandwich, which was answer enough. Brent continued calmly, "Sherlock, this is a stepping stone, like anything else. It will take time to adjust, which is why I want you to stay here for a few more months."

"I liked her," Sherlock spoke softly, "Mrs Hudson. I think we could get along well enough."

Brent smiled, "But…"

"But there's something off about it. Not her, but the situation, the people moving, you being surprised about it. I can't put my finger on it, but if nothing else, the mystery will keep me entertained."

Brent looked over at Sherlock, "It's hardly unusual, Sherlock. This is Florida and her place is a halfway house. People come and go all the time."

Sherlock shrugged and continued to eat his sandwich in silence. Brent let him until he finished his own sandwich. Finally he spoke, "I would like to continue to see you every other day for the first couple weeks. Then we'll slowly taper it down. But, if you ever need me, I'll give you my cell number. You can call me at any time."

Sherlock huffed, "You think I'm weak."

Brent shook his head, "No, everyone struggles with adjusting to life outside of rehab."

"You think I'll struggle more. Why?"

Brent was silent for a long time, "Because you have a hard time accepting that anyone would care about you."

Sherlock scowled, "Why should they? I don't care about them."

Brent smiled sadly, "I know for a fact that's not true."

Sherlock bristled and challenged him, "You think you know me so well, fine. What is the 'truth?'"

Brent cleared his throat, "You care about people. You worry that you care more about them than they care about you. You're worried that if anyone knew how you really felt about things, they would abandon you. So, you opt to be alone rather than risk others having that power over you. You think being alone protects you. But all it does is isolate you."

Brent stopped and let Sherlock have time to absorb what he said. Sherlock was silent for a long time, but finally he spoke, "I want to go back. Can we go back now?"

Brent stood and started his way back to his car, but he spoke quietly, "Sherlock, in these four months, I want you to give yourself a chance. You say you don't care what anyone else thinks, fine. But, give yourself a chance. Mrs Hudson piqued your interest, so give her a chance too."

Sherlock sighed and silently got into the car. Brent drove them back to the clinic and got Sherlock checked in. He figured Sherlock would be silent the rest of the day; he had given the man a lot to think about. Brent stayed until after dinner. He wanted to be available to Sherlock, should he break his silence. It was of little surprise to him when Sherlock entered his office and sat in a chair. Brent finished what he was working on and then directed his attention to Sherlock.

Sherlock had sat quietly while Brent finished and gave him his attention. Sherlock sighed before he began, "How do I 'give her a chance?'"

A small smile crossed Brent's lips, "Mrs Hudson is a wonderful woman. Just… let her be herself. Let her care for you if she wants to. And you might learn a thing or two if you listen to her."

Sherlock nodded, but frowned, "What if… If I'm rubbish out there."

Brent leaned forward slightly, "Sherlock, we're all 'rubbish out there' sometimes. You need to figure out if you are going to let society to dictate what 'rubbish' means, or if you're going to define it. If you let society define it, then you'll never overcome it. If you define it for yourself, well then you only have your own standard to answer to."

"My standards are always set high. I get bored too easily."

Brent tilted his head as he considered Sherlock's remark. Finally he spoke, "Setting standards is something I can help you with. If you want…" He paused for a moment, "And help you to achieve them or lower them if you're struggling too much."

Sherlock pressed his palms together and nervously rested his fingertips against his lips. Finally he nodded, "That sounds… acceptable."

Brent smiled, "You'll be okay, Sherlock."

Sherlock did not look convinced, "To-Tomorrow," he cleared his throat, "When I leave, will you take me back?"

Brent shook his head, "I'm sorry. The policy is that you need to leave on your own. We'll arrange the cab to take you there. But, if you like, I can stop by on my way home to see how you're settling in."

Sherlock nodded his head and with that he got up and left. Brent waited until Sherlock was out of earshot, then he chuckled to himself. He thought, "_Sherlock tries so hard to not be human and that leaves him more vulnerable than he can imagine._"

The trick would be to show Sherlock that he is human and it is not a bad thing. Brent sighed, knowing that the real work of Sherlock's rehab would begin tomorrow. It was Wednesday and his last day of full-time work would be Friday. He packed up all the notes and information he would need to work with Sherlock. He had slowly been packing the rest of his office two weeks ago. He left everything in sight alone, because he did not want to worry Sherlock. His wife will help him the next two days to finish everything else.


	37. Chapter 37

_Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts round here. _– "A Study In Pink"

Sherlock's release from rehab went better than either he or Brent thought it would. In the end, it was relatively benign. Three other patients were being released that day and they wanted the standard farewells – which were too sentimental and imbecilic for his tastes. So, Sherlock slipped out quietly and without any fanfare. The cab ride to his new apartment was pleasant enough, though he had to keep telling himself that any sense of nerves he had were to be expected.

When he stepped out of his cab, Mrs Hudson was again in the garden and ready to greet him. She smiled warmly at him, "Hello, Sherlock. Let's get you settled, shall we?"

Sherlock was about to try to refute her, but he could not. There was something about Mrs Hudson that felt… like home. It stirred something within him that he had not experienced in a very long time. So, with a strange sense of shock, Sherlock allowed her to take his bag and lead him to his flat. She was nattering on, Sherlock thought it was nonsense, until she opened the door and he saw several boxes already in the room. Then he replayed her comments and looked over at her with a bit of shock. "M-mycroft sent these?"

"Why, that's what I said, dear. They arrived this morning, in a fairly swanky get-up. I thought they might have been the FBI or something. They wanted to open and unpack them, but I put a stop to that. Chased them right out. It doesn't really feel like home until you unpack your own things."

Sherlock could not help the small smile that passed his lips. Mrs Hudson could prove to be the perfect buffer between himself and Mycroft. At the very least, she unknowingly prevented them from bugging his flat. That was when he noticed the tin in the kitchenette. He went over to it. There was a small note that read, "Welcome to the neighbourhood. Mrs Hudson"

He lifted the lid and saw there were fairy cakes inside and grinned madly, "You didn't have to do… Any of this."

She smirked, "Well, just to welcome you, don't expect it all the time. I'm your landlady and you'll never get on your feet if I wait on you hand and foot. Now, you get yourself settled and if you need anything, I'm just across the way there."

Sherlock nodded, unsure what to say in the face of such – acceptance. "Thank you."

Mrs Hudson beamed as she paused on her way out, "Oh, you're welcome, dear."

And then she was gone. Sherlock was fairly certain now that something was going on. No one was ever this kind to him without wanting something. But, there was nothing about her that suggested she was being anything but herself. Perhaps this is how she welcomed all her new tenants.

Sherlock went back to the boxes with a cake in hand and started to open them as he ate. Not much lab equipment, unfortunately, but a laptop, a mobile, odds and ends for the kitchen, toilet and bedding were all included. The smaller box was heaviest and contained a currently unlocked safe. Sherlock recognized it and knew how to use it and just where to store it. Inside the safe were small things that he had not needed during his time of living on the streets, but he would need as he started over as well as basic documents he would need as an Englishman in the States. Another box contained a small microscope, a crappy violin (which was better than no violin), a water kettle, toaster, several file folders and an envelope – probably containing money.

Sherlock set the envelope and folders aside, there would be time for those. He was supposed to be turning over a new leaf, so he started with taking Mrs Hudson's suggestions: he unpacked the boxes and got himself settled in. It did not take long, it was only a studio space, after all and while Mycroft had sent the bare essentials, there were not many items to worry about. When he was done, he looked around the space. His first thought was "Bored."

Just then, his intercom buzzed. It was a delivery person with perishable items. Sherlock went to see what it was. It was only one box. The message on the outside said, "Just to get you started. – Mycroft"

Sherlock smirked and took the box back to his room. Inside, he found a bit of frozen meat, milk, eggs, tinned fruit and vegetables, a loaf of bread, UK imported tea and a small assortment of other items. Sherlock grinned, filled and started his water kettle and put the items away while the water boiled. He was able to get everything put away before the water was ready. He made a cup of tea and sat down at the table with the envelope and files.

He opened the envelope first. As he suspected, it contained US dollars and another short letter from Mycroft, offering details on contacts Sherlock might find helpful in the local area. There was a post-it note stuck to the outside of the first folder, "Your first case, if it isn't too much trouble. –M"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He did not want to be working for Mycroft, until he saw the name on the folder, "Hudson." Curiosity piqued, Sherlock opened it and started to skim through the information and thought, "Not too much trouble, indeed."

He would certainly take this on as a case. The second folder was thinner, but seemed to be about Brent. Sherlock found this odd, since he and Brent had fairly open conversations. But the report the folder held made Sherlock gasp and swallow hard. He decided to put that folder away – he did not want to deal with that just now. He put the folders, envelope and wallet back in the safe, chose a passcode and locked it.

Then he turned to his mobile and laptop. They would both need to be charged. He plugged them in and waited a couple minutes before turning them on. The smart phone already had a message on it. It was from Mycroft. He deleted it without listening to it, but he did text him, "Thank you. – SH" and a few moments later, "I'm adjusting."

The reply came only moments later "Let me know if you require anything else. – Mycroft"

Sherlock smiled sardonically, set the phone down so it could finish charging and booted the laptop. It seemed to have all the programs he would need and a few new ones that had been developed in his time on the streets. He looked around his space again and thought, "Bored."

He sighed heavily, then stood and brought two small plates, a stick of butter, jam, napkins and two knives, which joined the tin of fairy cakes on the table. Since some of the cakes were not decorated, Sherlock thought the butter and jam would make a nice addition. Then he set another mug out near the kettle and started the water kettle again. Sherlock smiled to himself as he went across the way to get Mrs Hudson.

Mrs Hudson was happy to come visit him. She entered the flat and looked around, "You like everything out for easy access?"

Sherlock smiled a bit sardonically, "That and harder to lose anything."

She smiled at him, as prepared Mrs Hudson's tea with milk and sugar and he set it on the table. He prepared second mug for himself. Mrs Hudson sipped her tea and beamed at him, "It's perfect. You didn't even ask how I like it."

Sherlock smiled at her as he took an iced cake, "Well, there are only so many ways to prepare a proper tea, but given your personality and the time of day, it wasn't hard to guess what you would like."

She giggled lightly, "Well I think it's amazing."

She helped herself to an un-iced cake onto which she put a spot of jam. They talked until the late afternoon, when Mrs Hudson realised that she had to get Tea on for her husband. After she left, Sherlock curled on his bed with his laptop and the file marked "Hudson." This would be his first case and while he knew his brother sent it to him more to ensure his safety, Sherlock knew it would be more important than that to him.


	38. Chapter 38

_Sherlock, the mess you've made._ – "A Study in Pink"

It took Sherlock three days before he left the comforts of the complex. He played his violin, performed research on the computer and helped Mrs Hudson with her garden – taking some samples to test, since he noticed some plants doing better than others. During that time, he got Mrs Hudson to open up about Mr Hudson. Sherlock already had all the information in the file, but when people told him things, sometimes the inflection of a voice would give additional clues. Mrs Hudson did not seem keen to talk about him in any great detail. Sherlock found this curious, since she was willing to talk about herself and the pair of them as a couple quite readily.

Sherlock's first journey away from the complex alone was on a Saturday. It was an attempt to follow Mr Hudson – which proved rather difficult, given Sherlock's mode of transportation being on foot or by taxi. Taxi services were not as plentiful in this area as they were in London, much to his disappointment. When he lost Mr Hudson, in his anguish, he opted for doing a little grocery shopping, as Mycroft's supplies really had been just to get him started.

Sherlock continued to meet with Doctor Morris and the appointments were going well. It took him about a week, before he was finally able to read the file about the doctor that Mycroft sent. Doctor Morris was dying. Sherlock was surprised to learn that, so clearly Doctor Morris either had not known when he went through his medical file with Sherlock or he left the information out.

Sherlock was leaning towards some combination of the two – that Brent suspected, but did not have confirmation. According to the file, Brent would be lucky to last eight weeks, let alone the four months he had requested Sherlock to stay. Sherlock never broached the subject and neither did Brent for the first two weeks.

One day when they were meeting in a park while eating ice cream – Sherlock's treat, since he finally had money – the topic needed to be discussed. It was Sherlock who mentioned it. "How long are you going to wait before telling me?"

Brent raised an eyebrow, "Did you figure it out?"

Sherlock shook his head, "I was… informed."

Brent chuckled softly, "You weren't kidding when you said your brother was the British Government."

Sherlock gave him a look, "Why have me stay for four months when…"

He stopped himself. Brent tilted his head, "When… _what_?"

Sherlock swallowed hard, "You know what."

Brent nodded, "Indeed I do. Your hesitancy makes me wonder if you're ready to discuss this."

Sherlock needed no more encouragement, "At this point, you'll be lucky to have six more weeks, let alone three months. And here you are, wasting your time on me."

Brent smiled sadly, "Your first mistake is assuming you are so unworthy that any time spent with you is a waste."

"I don't understand."

"Sherlock," Brent continued after giving them both a minute, "It isn't a waste to spend time with you. I am a little disappointed that you still think that way after all this time."

"These are your last days, why not spend them with your wife?"

"Who says I'm not? I love my wife, Sherlock, and I love my work. Right now, you're my work. You're my last case. I'm spending a few hours a week with you. The rest of the time, I'm with my wife."

Sherlock nodded, "What becomes of me…. After."

Brent shrugged, "That's entirely up to you. I would still recommend that you stay, if I don't make it to the agreed upon time. You have your mystery of the Hudsons to sort out."

Sherlock nodded, "Okay. I'll stay until you… or I solve this case, whichever is longer."

Brent smiled, "Good. Now, as you so kindly pointed out, I do intend to spend time with my wife today."

With that, Brent left and Sherlock made his way back to his flat. That was how things passed for Sherlock as he started to put his life back together.

A month later, Sherlock received a call in the middle of the night informing him of Brent's death. He was not planning to attend the funeral a week later, but Mrs Hudson did not want to attend alone and Mr Hudson was away for business.

Brent's body was cremated, so there was no casket. Sherlock was surprised at the number of people there; he could tell many had been patients of Brent's. It was oddly comforting to see how successful many of them were. Some even got up to share their stories. Sherlock did not and when asked how he knew Brent, he said he was there to escort Mrs Hudson, though as the day went on, it became obvious that the opposite was true. Mrs Hudson was supporting him.

On the return to the complex, Sherlock noticed that Mrs Hudson was patting his hand. And not just patting his hand, but there was a distinctive pattern to it: quick-quick-quick, slow-slow-slow, quick-quick-quick. At first Sherlock thought his was imagining it. Then he looked over at her and she gave a wavering smile. Then, the pattern repeated itself again and something came to the surface of his mind: dot-dot-dot, dash-dash-dash, dot-dot-dot. Code! Morse Code! S.O.S.

Sherlock felt like an idiot. He wondered how long Mrs Hudson had been trying to get his attention. He turned his head and met her eyes. He nodded once, slowly and he tried to help her understand that her message was heard and received. Several blocks from the complex, Sherlock ordered the cab to stop, explaining that the fresh air would be good for both of them.

After he paid the fare, he offered his arm to Mrs Hudson and she took it gratefully. They walked a few steps in silence and Sherlock finally said, "Can we talk?"

Mrs Hudson took a look around and finally nodded. Sherlock felt it when she relaxed a little. When she said nothing he started, "I have been following him and watching over you. I will keep you safe."

She nodded, but did not say anything. Sherlock sighed, "Do you know what he's done?"

She shrugged, "I only have my suspicions, dear. But I know better than to say anything."

Sherlock nodded grimly, "There are always patterns to these things. Give me another two weeks and all should be ready."

Mrs Hudson looked up at him with a slight look of surprise. He just grinned in reply and patted her hand, "As I said, I've been watching over you."

She stopped him and enveloped him in a hug, "Thank you, dear."

Sherlock was not sure how to respond, other than to hold her tighter. When he released her he looked at her intently, "I will always do what I can to protect you."

After a last tight squeeze they again started to walk back in companionable silence.


End file.
